Endwar: The War in the Pacific
by BabaGannouj
Summary: While the war rages on in Europe and the Atlantic, the conflict spreads to East Asia and the Pacific.
1. Chapter 1

August 14 2020 - Seoul City, Republic of Korea

Being quick paid off. Hiroku Sato darted across the hallway into the next alcove, followed close by a hail of bullets. After a quick check (chest, arms, legs... crotch) to make sure he hadn't been hit, he poked his rifle around the bend and triggered a burst to put some heads down as his squadmate came across.

Xian Ling hissed as he flattened against the alcove, clutching his shoulder, where the armor had shattered. He slid his free hand under and checked it - no blood. He was still holding his rifle with that hand too - the armor had taken the hit. Ling stripped away the broken plate and gave Sato a thumbs up.

"Faster next time. Right. High-low. Three, two, one..." Sato took a knee and peeked around the corner as Ling leaned out above him. Sure enough, there was the holdout; leaning awkwardly around his own corner, but already sighted in. For a moment time stood still as Sato squeezed his trigger... the next thing he knew Ling was standing over him with a worried look on his face, grabbing Sato's vest.

"What, what the...?" Sato felt his chest pounding - it was like he'd been hit by a gorilla. Ling smiled.

"The vest stopped it, you're all right!" Ling rapped him on the helmet and dashed up to the corner. Sato's breath slowly returned and someone else pulled him to his feet from behind. More men hustled up to the corner and vanished around the bend as Ling covered them. Then he noticed the other guy, the one that had shot him in the chest plate. As it turned out, Sato had shot him in the jaw and there wasn't much left from that point up that was recognizable. It would have turned Sato's stomach three weeks ago, now it was more of a morbid curiosity. Funny what a war does to a person's perceptions.

"Sgt. Sato, we've got to catch up if we don't want to lose the squad, come on."

Sato shook it off. First time for everything. Hopefully it was also the last time he would have the pleasure of being shot, but it could have been worse. He glanced again at the holdout as he stepped over the mangled corpse.

"Lets go." The squad was just making the next turn. Sato and Ling covered the rear as the squad advanced again. There was no gunfight that corner, nor in any of the side rooms they checked out, but they all knew what was coming up after the halls, and this was the last hall. The control room for the uplink would be the final line, and the enemy could have anything waiting in there. The point man, Sato couldn't tell who from his position, tried to feed a snake cam under the door, but the seal was airtight. Direct assault with no recon was the only option.

"_Red squad set for main control_." Lt. Naguyo called up over the platoon channel.

"_Copy red, took you long enough. Red and Blue on my signal,_" That was Captain Zhou, "_three, two, one, mark._"

Breaching charges threw the door off its hinges and into the room, closely followed by Red Squad. Sato itched to look over his shoulder toward the fight but kept watching their six and backpedaled towards the control room. There was the staccato burst of 6.68mm rounds and at least one person screaming for a moment, but by the time he reached the door it was all over. He scanned the room before posting up at the doorway. Maybe ten Chinese soldiers were strewn about, and two of their own lay on the floor, already being attended for what it was worth.

There were stacks of explosives set in the corners of the room, thankfully still in their packaging and not yet deployed. There was enough there that Sato didn't care to imagine what would become of him if they had gone off when his Squad blew the door in. Half of the consoles in the room were shot up, completely gone. Of the remaining ten or so, another six were shorting out. Trashed.

But even in its current state the uplink was back in their hands. Sato was glad to be down there even though the fighting was tough. Back up topside the rest of the 1st was fighting to push out the Chinese from this particular block of Seoul and it was hard going. Their platoon might be cut off and the Chinese could mount a counter-attack on the uplink at any moment, which is why he was so studiously watching the corridor.

Private Ling took a knee across from Sato.

"So, Sergeant, how long are we going to be in this particular hole?"

"Shut up Ling, you know the answer." Sato growled. Ling knew damn well that Sato didn't know how long they'd be there. "How's your arm?"

Ling shrugged. "Plate took the hit. I'll get an impressive bruise but no battle scar for the ladies."

Sato rolled his eyes.

"You still want a scar?" That was Cpl. Misuro, Sato could tell from his signature gravelly voice and matching sense of humor. He was gripping his knife in its sheath.

"I didn't even say I wanted it in the first place!" Ling protested, hands waving in the air. "I should go grab a piece of that plate, though. Souvenir." Misuro grunted.

They ended up staying in the uplink for another two hours while regular forces arrived to take over. One of their men, Pvt. Tanaka, died on the floor of the control room. The other man was medevaced out with a bad gut wound, but Sato thought he would live. None of the Chinese made it, he was sure of that. Everyone knew the stories, had seen the videos of captured Rim soldiers being executed by Chinese officers. After those videos got out, the Chinese just seemed to have a hard time surrendering.

When they emerged from the uplink, Seoul was burning. It was almost midnight, the fires cast a red glow in the smoke-filled sky. Rubble and wrecked vehicles lined the streets. Bodies were still out in the open as well; no time for them yet. At least there weren't any wounded still out. Not right here, anyhow. Sato could hear the fight, only a couple blocks away, clearly. He didn't feel any urge to run and lend a hand at the moment; that enthusiasm had died along with half his squad in Cuwong two weeks ago. That fight made even this one look easy. He could still smell that battlefield, still saw it when he closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He doubted it would ever truly leave him.

Thankfully the battalion was regrouping around the uplink they had just cleaned out, so 3rd platoon didn't have far to go to set up their perimeter for the night. They set up shop at a roadblock thrown up by one side or the other, posting sentries and clearing out the stores on either side enough for some improvised bunks. A few enterprising soldiers appropriated some bedding from a nearby hotel and distributed it as they could. Sato was on the barricade when it was handed out and wasn't there to stake a claim. It was still warm out though, whether that was because it was still August or the fires were just putting out that much heat he didn't know.

The fight died down markedly during the night. Gunshots would pick up every ten minutes or so, sometimes sparking a brief exchange of automatic fire, but nothing lasted longer than a few minutes. Artillery drizzled in constantly on the Chinese. It had been a few days since the last Chinese guns were silenced, a fact Sato was deeply grateful for. There was nothing like enemy artillery to ruin the day, and all Tiger Brigade's elite units, like Sato's, were artillery magnets. It was a distinct downside of being on the Rim Coalition's premier fighting force. A resupply drone arrived not long after they settled down bearing a number of ammo cans and water - that was an upshot of being in Tiger Brigade.

It was a quick night. Sentry duty claimed two hours, and the unit was up and moving by seven. Between that and the waking nightmare that life had been for the last few weeks, Sato managed a couple hours of sleep. He stretched as he woke up, stiff from sleeping in his armor. His chest throbbed where he'd been shot the night before. Checking on what was left of his fire team; only three other soldiers where once there had been eight, he had to kick Ling twice to get him up.

"Ugh, leave me, I don't want to go to work." Ling groaned from beneath a thick blanket. "I think I'm sick, sergeant, I'll be going to sick call..." Ling's sense of humor was awake, even if its owner wasn't up yet. Sato often wondered if his humor had become a defense mechanism lately - Ling's hometown in Taiwan had been overrun weeks ago, and there was no news on his wife or the rest of his family. Only rumors of the brutality of the Chinese regulars. Women, children, they were subject to whatever the Chinese pleased. It was not a happy thought and Sato often muttered thanks that his girlfriend was still safe in Akita, a prefecture in North Honshu.

"What, have you caught the flu little Ling?" Pvt. Matsui joked, as he checked his rifle. Matsui was the newest member of Sato's team, only about three months old to the unit.

"I wish.." Ling said, throwing off his blanket and rising to his feet. "What I wouldn't give for a ticket to the rear."

"Mmm. Nurses in the rear." That was Misuro, his voice carrying from the other side of a shelf filled with sports accessories. Sato and the others on his side exchanged a look... Did Misuro plan the double meaning? before breaking out in belly laughs. Didn't matter.

They ate on the move, nibbling on bits of old rations and drinking from their water bladders as they moved up the streets. The frontline was close, so they moved tactically, by sections, scanning the rooftops as they went. Word came down through their platoon-internal frequency that the day's objective was an enemy strongpoint. Not just any strongpoint, either; City hall was their next target. The Chinese were digging in for a last stand there, what was left of their army had been trapped in Seoul for a week now and showed no signs of surrender. As long as the Rim's Navy and Air Force kept the Chinese from launching another fleet and landing reinforcements, the Chinese expeditionary force was done for.

They would launch the assault from the central post office, and move building to building clearing them out as they swept North towards city hall. 1st battalion was only one of a dozen attacking all along the line, and all the stops were coming out for this attack. That meant armor support, choppers, CAS... the works. It was enough to make Sato sick, because they only rolled out that kind of firepower when the infantry, i.e. him was going to make a near-suicidal attack.

It only took about ten minutes to reach the post office. A company of regular Japanese soldiers had occupied the building, keeping a careful watch on nearby Chinese positions. As Sato's platoon moved in, they got a mixed reaction from the current occupants. Some stared at their uniforms and gear jealously, others took heart at the sight of special forces. Sato immediately felt self-conscious and tried to act serious, giving his section a stern glare and hoping they would get the message as well. Sato and his men checked their gear as they waited for the word to go. Their rifles were Korean models, some of the newest models yet circulated.

The K12 was chambered for 6.68mm, which made it difficult to find spare ammunition sometimes, but gave it a better stopping power than the standard NATO 5.56mm still used in most of the Pacific Rim Alliance's nations, including Japan. But Sato hadn't looked back ever since it had replaced his old Type 89. The K12 was a bullpup design built with customization in mind. The whole rifle was modular and could be retrofitted to become almost anything. Sato's rifle had a snub barrel and folding stock, with a adjustable zoom red-dot scope on top. The rifle also had an integrated infrared laser for night ops. Some men carried new Japanese Type 8 SMGs, which fired 4.6mm caseless, an even rarer ammunition, but invaluable in close quarters. Most of the units in Tiger Brigade were fully outfitted with a mix of those two weapons.

Sato also normally carried a variety of stun, frag and concussion grenades, but his supply was down to scavenged Chinese grenades at the moment. The heavy weapons squad was still packing plenty of anti-tank rockets and air-burst rounds though. Hopefully they would take some pressure off of Sato and his men. In the meantime, he was on the lookout for grenades and had eyed each corpse on the way to the post office. A bunker-cracker sonic charge would have been ideal here but again, they'd been used up in the first week of the attack on Seoul.

His helmet's visor had a crack running down the right side and the HUD was offline until he could get it replaced. It was the third day he'd gone without, since a brick had landed on his helmet during a shelling. Thankfully his night optics were spared - he checked those briefly. He tightened down his armor and pads, and swapped out his radio battery for a fresh one. Then, furtively, he tugged off a glove and slid his fingers into his shoulder pocket, where he kept a picture of his girlfriend, Shinju. He ran his fingers over the photo, and he could see it in his mind's eye. Should have married her. If only he could get through this war, he'd change that.

He tugged the glove back on.

"Ready?" he asked his men. It still felt a little unnatural to have his own section, even though it felt like he'd had it for a lifetime. Ever since his old NCO had lost a leg at Cuwong, he'd had the fire team and that promotion he'd always wanted, as well, even if he didn't have the time to grab new insignia for it yet. Ling, Misuro and Matsui nodded back, and Sato keyed his mic.

"_Two, this is Red31, ready 1_."

"_Check, 31._" Came the reply from Platoon-Sergeant Katsuo. The other sections called up their status as well, in a steady stream of radio traffic. Sato could pick out each voice and match a name, a face, even though their call signs had changed as the platoon had taken losses over the weeks. Each time someone called up, he could see their predecessor as well... men he'd trained and lived with, in some cases for years. Brothers, dead or gone. Each one was still a pang in his chest. When it was done he silently cursed the Chinese, cursed the politicians, cursed whoever he could assign blame for the war. The Chinese were the most accessible group, though. They had been so arrogant in their attacks, so reckless... It was easy to see all that in hindsight, as he stood poised to pry them out of Seoul for good, of course. In the first week it was a nightmare for the Rim. Taiwan and Korea hit out of nowhere in a blinding air and sea assault, Chinese subs just outside Tokyo... The Koreans had a large standing army, but it was facing the wrong direction, North, when the attack came from the West over the sea.

It was a stunning move and had left Sato in a state of shock when he heard the Chinese were just outside Seoul only a day into the war. His unit was catapulted into action on the Korean peninsula, but nobody truly expected the situation to improve - they dreaded the inevitable entrance of North Korean forces, forever poised, to make good their long preparations on a weakened foe. Which is why the whole hemisphere was shocked when the Chinese entered North Korea a week after landing in South Korea. In a broadcast, their aging ˜beloved leader' explained that the Chinese had demanded passage through their sovereign lands, and declared war on the PDRK when they had denied their request. Sato suspected there was more to the backstab than that, but the good news was that not only were the North Koreans not coming to finish them off, they were the de facto ally of the Rim now, like it or not, and were mauling the Chinese reinforcements meant for Seoul.

"_Be advised, ten minutes to go-time. Fang co. will be rolling in; we make our move in platoon sequence starting as soon as they pass. Odd squads today_."

"You heard the Lieutenant." Sato motioned with a chop of his hand to the doorway they'd be sprinting out of, pre-empting the gripes he knew were coming. Captain Zhou loved to send the men in platoon sequence, which was fine it you were in second or third platoon, but if you were in first, it meant you were point man of the company and first to get shot. Lt. Naguyo at least changed the first squads to go each day, alternating evens and odds. All of which didn't help Sato and his buddies, since they were in red squad and it was the first, thus still going out there first. Sato didn't need them griping in front of regular army though, that was a sure way to bring Plt. Sergeant Katsuo down on them like a hammer.

"If you haven't heard we're moving up in ten minutes," Sato said to a regular-army sergeant standing nearby.

"Right." the man said, and started spreading the word down the line. Sato watched as the men poised themselves by windows and firing points, checked ammo and clutched at their weapons.

"If this is a post office, where's all the mail?" Ling asked. Sato and the rest stared at him.

"Maybe the Chinese used it as toilet paper Ling, ****, I don't know." Sato mumbled.

"I'm just saying, shouldn't there at least be some envelopes around here, or -" Sato cut him off with a glare.

"Right. Let's kill some Reds." He said, cocking his rifle. Since he'd already had a round chambered, a single round popped out and onto the floor. Ling glanced down at it sheepishly. Sato had little doubt the ejected round bit had been staged.

"Sometimes I wonder," Misuro grunted. Platoon Sgt. Katsuo glared at the three of them. Maybe he'll forget in the fight. Sato hoped. Otherwise it would be an ***-chewing later on... Sgt. Katsuo never forgot though.

"_Get set_." That was Plt. Sgt. Katsuo. Sato continued watching him prowling up and down the line. The post office was a little too crowded at the moment for Sato's liking, but with two companies of men, depleted as they were, crammed in there was no room to spread out. Except outside, of course.

Sato and his men stacked up at a large window. Or, at least what used to be a window, and now was a large opening in the wall. It was knee high and well over Sato's head - as long as he didn't trip on the way out it was no problem. The soldier at the window backed off to let Sato's section get set.

Sato eyed his watch as the minutes dragged on and his heart started pumping.

"_One minute out._" There was a chorus of clicks as safeties were flipped off.

"_Thirty Seconds._" Sato could hear Ling mumbling a prayer in mandarin. Sato whispered "thirtyseconds," to the soldier. All around the room men tensed up as the distant rumble of engines suddenly grew.

"_Go-time. 1st platoon, after Fang Co., on my mark._" Lt. Naguyo managed to sound calm.

The rumble of tanks grew to a roar as the first one took the corner. Then, the world exploded. It was impossible to keep track, but Sato knew everybody had just opened up. The Chinese must have let loose with rockets and machine guns, the tanks fired their main guns, massive rail guns that ripped through the air with the clap of a giant's hands, Sato could see the regulars and his own men open fire, and he could hear the scream of incoming artillery raining down on the Chinese. His teeth rattled every time a main gun fired or a shell exploded, and dust filled the air with each shot.

"_Ready... Go_!" Somehow the Lieutenant had kept track of the passing tanks. Sato sprang out of the window and into the street, doubling over as he ran. Over his head a rocket screamed past and into the window of the building across the street, exploding inside. Sato ran headlong into the smoke and dust.

He was on top of a Chinese soldier before he knew it; the kid was grabbing feebly at a throat wound that was obviously fatal. Sato ended it with a tap of his trigger before rushing into the next room, rifle up. Chinese soldiers were standing in the middle of the room, looking at another door. Sato's section took them down before they knew it. A moment later, another squad burst in through the door that had captured the late Chinese's attention. Sato could tell from their mottled black camouflage they were in the 12th battalion, and he had no doubt they immediately sized himself and his men up by their gear and rust-and-black angular patterns.

"Damnit!" the other point man swore, as his team came through. Sato just kept moving, his men close behind, up the stairs to the next floor, pausing only to lob a grenade onto the landing above. Charging in after the explosion, he almost tripped over one writhing enemy before he slinked through the door and off to the side. The second floor had used to be a department store, apparently, but behind all the racks of fashionable clothing the Chinese had set up firing positions looking out the windows and across the street, and were enthusiastically exchanging fire with Sato's friends across the street.

"Grenades," Sato growled, ducking behind a table stacked high with ration crates. "Close, mid, long." He said, pointing to each man in turn. They each pulled out a different grenade and pulled the pin. "Now!" Sato threw his own grenade into the biggest clump of men he could see and ducked down behind the table. The resulting explosions sent clothing, splinters, mannequin bits and flesh flying everywhere.

"_Second floor east, check fire_." Sato spoke into his radio, before re-emerging from behind the table and advancing down the line. There wasn't much left, and the few men that remained were still stunned and were easy marks. Sato almost shot a mannequin dressed in a Chinese uniform; a decoy that had done these particular soldiers no good.

Sato sighed with relief as he reached the end of the room. They could set up here to cover the next dash across the street. Other squads were rushing up the stairwell to clear out the upper floors.

"All right, Misuro set up there," he pointed to a window lined with sandbags and blue jeans, "Ling set up-" One of the Chinese soldiers silently rolled over, clutching a grenade not two meters away. Sato saw him release it in slow motion, and the next thing he remembered was a brief moment of red pain all up and down his right side before blacking out.

Sato woke up three hours later in a cot, with an oxygen mask on his face, feeling numb and warm all over. When he tried to move though, a man appeared over him with a face mask and held him down again.

"What, where..." He mumbled through the mask.

"Take it easy, sergeant. You're fine. You're going to be fine."

Slowly the room came into focus. Other men on cots surrounded him, wrapped in various bandages and either laying still or moaning quietly. Sato pulled himself up and looked down his body in a moment of panic... everything was still there, that was his first worry. His legs was wrapped in several spots. His right forearm was bandaged as well.

"Armor stopped a lot of the shrapnel, sergeant. There was a lot of bleeding but nothing too bad. That and your helmet stopped a fragment with the radio, I'm afraid its broken. Moderate concussion to the head as well, but nothing we can˜t treat." the man pointed to the helmet, laid over his bloody armor at the foot of his cot. The radio was shredded.

"Visor was broken anyway..." Sato managed to mumble. The man smiled weakly and moved on. Sato laid there, wondering what he'd missed... and if his men were all right. If it hadn't stopped a chunk of shrapnel he could have used the radio, but in the other hand he was glad it stopped the fragment instead of his skull. He'd just have to wait and rumor-fish until he could link back up with the unit. Sato felt a drowsy haze wash over him and his eyes fluttered shut again. 


	2. Chapter 2

September 2, East China Sea, USS Harry S. Truman

Lieutenant Michael Watson ached, head to toe. Between the incredibly long days and the short nights, fatigue was taking its inevitable toll. Just waking up in the morning was grueling; he shaved each morning slowly, his eyes half-open, propped up over the sink on his free hand as though it were the only thing holding him up. While standing in line for chow his legs ached. When he ate it was his jaw. Staying awake during morning mission briefings was probably the most challenging task of the day, and he always came armed with a steaming thermos of coffee. When his day was done, all he wanted to do was find his way back to his rack, or any rack, and pass out cold, and pray that nothing came up.

He'd heard of ˜relentless mission tempo' before. Supposedly they had operated on that tempo in any number of exercises. Now he knew that was a lie. Relentless was relentless, it wouldn't stop until he was dead, one way or another. That much was clear now. This war was destroying people - quickly in battle, slowly by fatigue or disease. It didn't matter what job you had, it was killing you somehow. That said, Michael would never have traded places with a ground-pounder. He was fine with the war killing him real slow, or real fast. Either way it was going to be more clean than the deal infantry got.

Michael made his way down the gray metal corridors and through the thick hatchways towards the briefing room. The USS Harry Truman's innards weren't the most aesthetically pleasing surroundings, but neither were those of any Naval vessel. The briefing room was slightly better, though. White boards covered the front wall of the room, overflowing with mission notes, organizational information, news... in some corners people had scrawled jokes that the CAG had either not noticed or had decided not to notice. The other walls were decorated with unit crests, pictures, and most conspicuous of all, a mounted bear's head that had mysteriously appeared after the squadron's first kill of a Russian jet. Their chairs were leather and dangerously padded for comfort, with fold-out desks to take notes on. More than one pilot had fallen asleep in those chairs, only to be suddenly and violently woken up by the Commander of the Air Group by means of a pitcher of ice water he kept in his podium.

Lieutenant Watson settled into a seat in the second row and immediately began sipping coffee as the rest of the squadron filed in. There wasn't much conversation, not this early in the morning - in spirit, everyone was still back in their racks, fast asleep. Watson rapped his fingers as he waited. What would it be today? Each pilot asked him or herself as they sat there, trying desperately to wake up. Would it be a patrol over endless blue ocean, or perhaps over Korea? Maybe they would get tasked South to Taiwan. Escort mission? Watson hated those; nothing worse than flying alongside some bloated barge of the skies, only to get blitzed by Chinese or Russian jets for your trouble. It was bad enough they were sticking their necks out for the Japanese and Koreans; sometimes Watson had trouble seeing the wisdom of the whole Pacific Rim/US alliance. It did keep the fight in the Pacific far from the West coast, and having access to the bases in Japan made Alaska feel a lot safer, he supposed.

The CAG showed up a minute before his brief was scheduled to begin, just like he always did. Lieutenant Watson had long suspected that Commander Ramsey was in fact a robot. He placed his coffee on the podium, collected the papers that made up his brief and eyed the room, exactly as he did every brief, no matter the time of day, nature of mission... It didn't help that he shaved his head bald on what must have been a bi-daily basis. In an emergency Watson could have used the man's cranium as a signal mirror. Some men liked their routines. Ramsey lived by them.

"Good morning. I'll let you have the good news first," this instantly made Watson suspicious, "Next mission is scheduled for 0400 hours, on the 4th." Ramsey stared at them, waiting for a reaction. Everyone froze in their seats. Watson would have suspected a trick, but as far as he could tell, Ramsey wasn't programmed for humor. The tension in the room was palpable as Ramsey waited for his response.

Lt. Commander Hicks broke the silence. "... Seriously?"

That seemed to satisfy Ramsey. "Yes." He said. There was another pause as everyone's brains processed the information, then a cheer went up. Fists were pumped, hi-fives were exchanged, and several people loudly thanked their heavenly savior.

Then someone remembered what Ramsey had said first. "What's the bad news, sir?" Ramsey waited as the cheering died down, and as a pit formed in Watson's gut.

"Bad news is that the airwing is taking part of the largest air attack to date, targeting the Chinese's fleet in the Taiwan straits," That sounds great, Watson had time to think, before Ramsey continued, "And VFA-37 will be flying CAP around this fleet." Here Ramsey paused yet again for effect. A massive groan was the first noticeable reaction, followed by a number of loud protests, and curses directed chiefly at the chain of command, Ramsey, and God. Ramsey made a chopping motion with his hand at his throat and the noise subsided.

"This is some bull.." someone muttered behind him. Watson chuckled - the squadron's name was ˜Bulls'.

"Operational details as follow..." He continued with his routine briefing as if nothing were wrong at all... just like the machine Watson knew he was.

And so, as he flew the first mission in weeks that he felt 100%, he was nonetheless still disgruntled. The whole squadron shared his sentiments, too. This was going to be the biggest air battle since WWII, and here they were, babysitting the fleet while everyone else fought the real fight.

"_Oh, I can see it now,_" Lt. Commander Joe ˜Eskimo' Hernandez, his wingman said. "_'Grandpa, were you there at the battle of Taiwan Strait?' ˜No, Jimmy, I was flying circles around my carrier hundreds of miles away. But I was supporting the fight._'" Mike chuckled to himself.

"_Don't you need to have kids first before you can worry about telling stories to your grandkids?_" Mike transmitted in reply.

There was a pause on the radio. "_You're missing the point, Sprocket. But touché._"

They had been in the air since balls-thirty, (0030), and it was 0430 now; the attack would be getting underway any minute, a fact not on either pilot as they orbited their Carrier Group. Lieutenant Watson was restless inside the cockpit, and a little nervous even. It was not in his nature to be at the back of a fight. He had been accused of being over-aggressive and reckless before, but nobody could say he wasn't an effective pilot. In his flight's first tangle with Chinese over the East China Sea he'd downed two of four J-14s. He'd also had a close call with a missile but came through the fight in one piece. Add another J-14 two days after that and a J-13 a week ago and he was one kill away from being the air wing's first combat ace.

But he wasn't about to make ace today, and he was sure someone else would, and become 7th fleet's first ace of the war. It would have been a close call regardless, but if he'd been in the main fight he would have had a real chance at it. The war was young though, and he was sure he'd eventually get his chance, if he didn't die in the process. He did have a healthy paranoia of the EF's orbital lasers. If one of those took aim at the Truman... there wouldn't be much left. He'd been assured that the fight in space was going well enough that the Europeans probably wouldn't risk moving a laser into position over the Pacific. Whether that meant the US was winning the space fight or they were holding their own he didn't know, but at least there were laser beams raining from the sky onto the fleet.

He balled and unballed his fists, trying to let out some of his tension. It was no use and he just kept watching his displays, fuming silently.

"_Coming up on checkpoint three, get ready to turn to new course... hold on a sec, I've got contacts, 10 o'clock, Sixty miles out._"

Watson's heart missed a beat. The strike force wasn't any where near this location. Almost every aircraft in the area would be making that attack, including a lot of Korean and Japanese jets. There shouldn't have been anyone near their zone. No friendlies anyway.

"_Elvis this is Eskimo, we've got ten bogies, bearing 112 degrees, speed 900 knots._" Supersonic. Watson immediately but his game face on.

"_Copy, Eskimo. We are moving to your sector time now. No friendly aircraft in your area, contacts are likely bandits._"

"F***!" Watson spat. Two on ten weren't his kind of odds. Even his aggressiveness had its limits.

"_Falcon 10,_" That was 'falcon code' for 'holy S***!' "_Come on Sprocket let's draw them in._" Hernandez broke right, heading back towards the Carrier group as the other flights of the CAP were routed to intercept. They were still at least ten minutes out from the fleet's pickets, even at top speed, which they accelerated to now.

"_Eskimo, this is Elvis. Confirmed bandits, twenty total contacts, J-14. Pickets are engaging now._"

Two squadrons of Chinese jets against just their one, spread out as it was. The picket cruisers had better make a good showing or the fleet was going to take some hits and his own *** was in trouble.

He could just imagine the picket ships warming up their rail guns now, missile tubes sliding open, high-power radar systems focusing in on the Chinese.

"_Eskimo, loop around and link up with Ragin' lead, and get ready to engage._" Hernandez angled his flight path slightly, getting set up to loop around and join up with whatever part of the squadron was able to make it. It was almost time, now. Watson's palms were moist inside his flight gloves. This was going to be tricky; his only chance of survival was going to be the air defenses of the fleet, but there was a reason the fleet had a CAP; the defenses weren't impregnable. And if one of those fighters that got through was armed with a nuclear strike missile, there wouldn't be much of Truman left to land on.

"_Splash one bandit. AA Rails engaging._" That was one less bandit to worry about. At least he knew the rail guns on those pickets weren't useless. They wouldn't be able to track fast enough when the bandits got too close but at a medium range they were lethal. Watson could only imagine what it had to feel like to get slammed with a round coming from one of those beasts. It would probably shred the plane instantly.

"_Here we go, Sprocket._" There were six Bulls ahead in a loose formation, and it was time to join up with them. Hernandez finished the loop ahead of the squadron and the two of them quickly fell into place alongside the other six F-35. Now they were headed directly for the incoming bandits, and the stretch of morning sky that separated them was vanishing rapidly. Watson flipped the safeties on his AIM-120F missiles, which were the longest-ranged and most lethal at his disposal. The bad guys were almost in the optimal range, 40 miles out, and he was just waiting for the -

"_Ragin, weapons free, weapons free._"

There was a chorus of "_Fox three_"'s over the radio as everyone loosed both of their 120Fs at the bandits. Then, Watson braced himself mentally as he waited for the enemy to return fire.

"_Ragin, Elvis. Multiple missile launches... count twenty, Adders._" The Russian-designed equivalent of the 120-series, they would be using active radar guidance to lock onto them, and passive guidance if they were jammed, homing in on the jammer.

"_This is Half-life, duck is away._" The AJD-14 missile his squadron mate had just launched was a rather large jamming apparatus with no warhead, only a rudimentary targeting system and the jamming equipment. The squadron went passive on radar and spread out as the adders hopefully took the bait. If they didn't, there was little chance of evading one of those bastards.

With his radar off, he had to rely on Elvis, the AWACs on station, to give him updates as the missiles passed each other in the air. If you weren't religious, this was a great time to start. Watson strained his eyes looking for the flare on an incoming missile.

"_duck is down, duck is down._" Elvis called up. Watson tensed up - if a missile was going to hit, it'd hit any second now.

"_Beanstalk is down, eleven bandits remain._" Elvis reported. A little piece of Watson's heart broke off and he prayed his buddy had time to eject. "_Missiles are past, Ragin, close and engage_."

Watson switched his radar back on and took stock of the new set of targets as he formed up with Hernandez again as they closed to sidewinder range.

"_Firestone, fox two!_" signaled the first sidewinder launch, and within moments the sky was filled again with missiles as each side unleashed the second barrage. As Watson watched his missile streak away, he could just barely make out the enemy formation as they launched their own missiles - they'd be on top of each other in moments now. In the meantime, Watson had the enemy's missiles to deal with. Assuming they were being targeted, Hernandez and Watson immediately started evasive maneuvers and popping flares.

"_Break! Brea-_" the transmission cut off suddenly and a flash of light registered out of the corner of Watson's eye; another bird getting hit. Pinned to his seat as he banked away from one missile, he watched in horror as one passed only feet away from his cockpit. There was no time even to rattle off a ˜thank you Jesus!' as the Chinese fighters roared past, intent on reaching their target.

Hernandez put his bird into a tight turn, pushing his limit and Watson followed , almost blacking out in the process. But then they had what most fighter jocks could only dream of; clear shots at the backsides of six Chinese. If he hadn't hit the trigger Watson was pretty sure his AIM-9's would have shot off of the rails themselves.

The engagement only lasted a few minutes, from detection to the last bandit downed. Twenty-four bandits brought down at the cost of three of their own planes and one of their pilots, Kelly ˜Beanstalk' McLeod. The other two pilots had ejected and were promptly fished out of the water by the SAR bird, as were four Chinese pilots who were even now becoming acquainted with the brig of another ship. They had found another one, Watson heard, but the crazy bastard had fired on the SAR bird with his sidearm as they came in to pick him up. He was still wondering what happened to that poor soul as he collapsed into his rack and drifted off to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

September 7, Yalu river, North Korea

Private Choi Bae was confused. Life had always been so straightforward for him, everything laid out in logical lines so easy to follow. Now things were complicated.

He peered out across the river from the foxhole he'd dug a week ago. It still felt so strange to be looking North, after spending a whole year looking South at the DMZ. There was a bank of fog on the river, so thick he felt like he could have reached down and scooped it up. The artillery was silent at the moment, but he knew the Chinese wouldn't wait long to start up another bombardment. He'd gained a lot of respect for enemy artillery the past two weeks, respect earned with the blood of many of his comrades. His foxhole was concealed by a bush and tall grasses in the hopes he would not attract a rain of shells or rockets on himself.

Three weeks had passed since he'd moved up to this spot on the Yalu. The first two days he thought he was going to escort the Chinese forces down to attack the Southerners. Then his unit started to dig in and barricade the Dandong bridge, which didn't make any sense. Two days after that the officers had given a speech about the treachery of the Chinese, and how they were planning to invade both Koreas and enslave them. Bae, like many soldiers was surprised to learn this about the Chinese, who had always been seen as a national friend. It was the Chinese, after all, who had helped them repulse the Americans so many years ago and helped buy his freedom with their blood.

Now they were the enemy. He was not sure what the Southerners were, but he knew they could rest easy knowing the People's Army was holding back the Chinese. The first fight at the bridge had been a slaughter; the Chinese had tried to force their way across with tanks and fast boats dropping off infantry at the banks of the river on either side off the bridge. He might have killed a few of the Chinese on those boats, but it was hard to tell with the amount of bullets hitting them. He had watched the tanks on the bridge as they tried to break through the barricade, the first one being hit by a dozen rockets, blocking the road as it exploded and burned.

After that day the Chinese had started using their artillery and planes to hit Bae and his unit. He didn't see his side's air force, but the officers assured him and others that it was downing hundreds of Chinese planes. The Chinese must have had thousands of planes, the way they continued to bomb them. They had tried to cross the bridge again, this time with artillery raining down like a typhoon of shells and rockets, and Chinese jets screaming overhead constantly. More boats charged across the river, firing machine guns and rockets, darting back and forth close to the bank. Bae had shot his rifle at them but they didn't stop or explode like the first boats. As he was shooting at the boats, the bridge unexpectedly exploded in a cloud of brief fire and smoke, the ruined pieces falling into the river.

He found out later that engineers had snuck onto the bridge with explosives at night, and rigged the bridge to explode in case the Chinese were going to get across it. At the time Bae thought one of his side's jets had bombed it, but in any case the Chinese attack was halted there, and they had been bombarding the Koreans ever since. It came in different varieties, he learned. There were lone shells screaming in at night to keep you up, violent storms that came and ended suddenly to kill you, steady slow rains to keep you in your holes... Bae had become all to well-acquainted with his own hole, sleeping eating, waiting. He did try to use the latrine set up for his platoon as much as he could, but during a couple of the long and steady bombardments he'd had no choice but to... improvise in his own hole.

He was also starting to get lice, probably because he hadn't been able to properly wash his clothes or body for almost a month. It had started a few days ago with a little itching in his scalp but it was spreading fast and getting worse by the hour, it seemed. He wondered if the Chinese were having such a great time on the other side of the river.

"Hey, Choi!" Sgt. Kim's voice broke the early-morning silence. Floating through the air from his foxhole, five meters back from Bae's.

"Sergeant?" Choi responded, wondering what the man had in store for him. Sgt. Kim was not a social man; he would only talk to his soldiers to give them instructions.

"Your turn to get rations for the day. Report to the field kitchen." If Bae remembered correctly it was Pvt. Li's turn, but he knew there would be no argument, certainly not yelling foxhole-to-foxhole where the entire squad could hear it. He pulled himself out of his hole and started heading back, passing Sgt Kim on the way, reclining in his hole, helmet off, whittling away at a stick. It was a ten-minute walk to the ˜field kitchen' which was really a diminishing pile of field rations, surrounded by the cooks, who spent their time in foxholes as well. Choi Bae checked in with the cooks, who released his squad's meager daily rations to his keeping. They asked him if he'd seen anything and he said no, not that day. Maybe if he'd told them something interesting he could have gotten a few extra rations, but his squad already got a little more than they were supposed to, since some of the dead men were still being issued rations. Bae felt no need to inform the cooks of this discrepancy, and also no need to waste his time above-ground chatting with them.

Getting rations wasn't so bad, he thought to himself, walking through the blasted landscape that separated the kitchen and his squad˜s position. At least he'd be sure to get part of the extras, since he was passing them out. It wasn't really that it was so much work, as it was dangerous being out of his hole. If a bombardment began, a sudden storm, while he was up here... he tried not to think about it; he would jinx himself. But no rain of shells came on his behalf, and he began passing out the ration tins to his squad mates. His friends got extra rations, as well as Sgt. Kim, who always got some of the extras.

"You didn't let on about the extra rations, did you Choi?" Kim interrogated him as he approached with the ration-bag.

"No, Sergeant." _If I had, where would these extras I'm giving you come from?_

"Good to know you can do something right, Choi, I-" Kim's eyes went wide, and he grabbed Choi by the collar and hauled him down into his hole. Bae sputtered on the way down, landing face first in the mud at the bottom of the hole. Scrambling to his feet, confused and angry as hell, he grabbed Sgt. Kim with one hand and pulled back for a punch, and that was when he heard the freight-train scream of incoming artillery. A lot of artillery. The air around them exploded, hissing fragments of shells crisscrossing over their heads as the ground shook. Dirt rained down, clumps of mud thrown high into the air. Choi could feel them landing on him as he balled up inside Sgt. Kim's foxhole. The noise was thunderous, like lightning striking only meters away, again and again.

It was one of the sudden storms meant to surprise and kill; Choi knew them well. They were always the worst at first, when the Chinese shot shells high into the air, then in a lower arc, then in another lower arc, so they would all arrive at the same time. It was an American technique all KPA soldiers were told about. The bombardment lasted for only a few minutes, during all of which Bae remained in the fetal position, making himself as small as possible. Then, the rain suddenly lifted, although Bae could still hear the rounds hitting further back, where the cooks and the secondary lines were.

He opened his eyes. Everything was covered in dirt, including Sgt. Kim, who was also just un-balling himself.

Bae collected himself, brushing off some of the dirt and straightening his helmet.

"Thank you, sergeant," he muttered. Kim waved his hand dismissively. The two of them just breathed for a moment.

But the moment did not last. It began slowly, with a few bursts of MG fire, then it picked up... quickly. There were shouts of alarm going up all up and down the river-bank positions. Kim and Choi Bae scrambled up to look.

The Chinese were back.

This time they had many more gun-boats, and long, flat barges loaded with troops emerging through the fog. The river bank was only about 100 meters away, and he could see the barges almost touching the bank. Up came his rifle and he unloaded an entire magazine before he knew it. As he pawed frantically for his reload, he watched Sgt. Kim firing calmly, as though he were at a firing range, single shots with brief pauses to aim.

Choi Bae took a deep breath and loaded his magazine, and looking down his sights, tried to shoot like Kim. There were hundreds of Chinese storming off of the barges onto the shore, wading the last few meters through knee-deep silty-brown water. A few of them fired back as they came, shooting wildly from the hip, more out of fear than anything. Machine-gun fire stitched back and forth across the water, reaping dozens of men at a time as they leaped out of the barges. An automatic grenade-launcher fired relentlessly into one of the barges. Bae shot at the men that had gotten the furthest away, closest to the shore where they could stop and fire back, where they were the easiest targets for him.

RPGs streaked out, some at the gunboats, more at the barges. When they slammed into the crowded barges, the resulting explosions were sickening to watch. Men and parts of men were thrown into the air, there were clouds equal parts smoke and vaporized blood. One of the gunboats exploded and burned out of control as the fire hit the fuel tank and onto the water.

And, finally, some Korean artillery began to come down on the Chinese. Mortars at first, then shells and rockets, exploding in gigantic plumes of water.

"We're killing them!" Bae shouted as he reloaded again.

"Shut up and keep shooting!" Kim shouted to be heard over the incredible noise.

Choi Bae sighted in at a gunboat darting close to the shore, machine guns and light cannon blazing. Bullets peppered the ground around Choi, throwing up dirt, some of which sprayed into his eyes. He ducked down and wiped furiously at the offending eyeball, grimacing in pain. He heard a faint 'ding', and Sgt Kim sat back against the back of the foxhole.

"Can't stop now, sergeant!" Bae rubbed the dirt out with his hands and opened one of his eyes. His stomach turned.

Kim was dead. There was a hole the size of Bae's thumb in the front of the helmet, and blood seeped down the front of his dirt-marred face, past open, listless eyes. Choi Bae's heart pounded. He knew he should have kept firing, that if Kim could tell him anything right now it would be to forget him and kill the Chinese. But Bae just looked into his cold eyes, staring at nothing.

He was frozen in place in that foxhole. He couldn't move his hands, his feet. Icy hands held him down, his spine was frozen solid, immobile. He was fully aware of what was happening, on one level. He could hear the scream of low-flying jets as they passed overhead, and someone screaming one or two foxholes over, out of pain or anger he couldn't tell. Bullets zipped past overhead. Every now and then some dirt would land in the foxhole, on him or Sgt. Kim. His hands remained on his face, where they had been wiping at the dirt, his rifle in his lap. It was all he could do to keep breathing at that point.

Some time later, Bae had no idea how long, minutes or hours, someone jumped into the foxhole with him.

"Ugh," he said, climbing off of Sgt. Kim, who unceremoniously fell over in the crowded, muddy foxhole.

"Oh," he cursed under his breath, looking at Bae for the first time. "Still alive... ?" it became a question as it left his lips.

Bae looked at him, and the spell was broken.

"Yeah..." he managed to say.

"Would you mind helping me kill these Chinese, then?" The newcomer asked sarcastically.

Bae returned to his firing stance and gave his answer to the Chinese.


	4. Chapter 4

Jayadeep Malik waited patiently in line, holding his ID card out for inspection. It was irritating to wait in line at these checkpoints; a real hassle. He could have bribed his way to the front of the line, he supposed, but he wasn't in a rush today and it might have attracted unwanted attention. The last thing he wanted was to be interrogated by the police. He'd be waiting in a holding cell the whole day just to get questioned by some disinterested cop who would probably extort him for more money. No, thanks. He wasn't exactly in a rush but he didn't have that kind of time, either.

It was a warm, muggy morning in Mumbai, the air seemed ready to dump rain on the city at any moment. It was monsoon season here, and Malik thanked God on a regular basis that he'd be out of country in a few days. Rain was one thing, endless rain was another. He was lucky the rain had held back up till now for the day, and soon he'd be under cover.

"Rain's coming," the man in front of him said, cheerfully. Did he enjoy the rains? Strange man...

"Yes, probably for the whole day." Malik said, as the man looked over his shoulder for a response.

"You don't sound excited - I don't think you appreciate the monsoon, do you? After the droughts last year I have learned to." Malik pretended to consider his point for a moment, and nodded. He hadn't been there last year, but he'd heard about the droughts nonetheless.

"I should be happy for India, but I do not like being wet." Malik said, smiling vaguely. That seemed to satisfy the man. In any case he was next in line.

"ID." The policeman said, unnecessarily as Malik reached the front of the line. Malik held out the ID, and the man took it and swiped it through his reader. The machine chirped and the policeman seemed satisfied with the result. He moved to return Malik's card, but it caught on the edge of the reader and the policeman dropped it.

"So sorry," he said as he retrieved it from the ground. "Have a good day, Mr. Singh." He said, glancing at the card again to read the name. Malik slid the card into his jacket pocket, mumbled a ˜thanks', and moved on. Damned clumsy cops. That was just more people that might remember his face now. Nothing much to worry about but every little bit counted in Malik's business.

Chhatrapati Terminus was an ancient building, originally built while the British were running the show in India. It was a massive, Victorian-style building with high arches and grand entrances. It was also eternally crowded and served Malik's purposes perfectly. He joined the throng of people entering the station and was swept inside. The interior was just as ornate as the exterior, a charming looking glass to a time long-gone. Malik made his way to the locals - Mumbai's metro system. It was even more crowded there than the station above, if that was possible. It was a little intimidating, even to Malik's experienced and jaded eyes. There were so many people here. It was one thing to read about India's population but to be caught in a seething mass of it really made the numbers hit home. It must have been the same in China, he reflected. It also made him a little nervous, deep deep inside.

The air was thick down in the tunnels, and there was a distinct odor; a musky scent which seemed to cling to his clothes. Malik walked to the far end of the platform as a train pulled out. He made the motion of checking his watch and jammed a hand into his pocket impatiently. While his hand was in the pocket he palmed a 2 rupee coin and pulled it. It was a tarnished, beaten old coin, nondescript in every respect. Except perhaps that there was a miniaturized receiver inside that was hopefully even now picking up a transmission. He looked at the coin closely. In a certain spot on the edge of the coin a new black speck appeared, the indicator that it had successfully received the message. He suppressed a small grin. The marvels of technology. It had made this particular job ridiculously easy, at least.

Coin in hand he made his way out of the station again, working his way through the crowds and out into the streets. The next portion of the mission would be the tricky part. Getting out of India wasn't really a difficult thing to do; he could easily have slipped away into Bangladesh or even out through Sri Lanka. Flying out of India was risky at best... fooling a checkpoint cop was easy enough but the airports were much more tightly controlled. It would also take time getting back home with the information he'd just picked up. His controllers were normally patient enough for him to extract information through normal means, but he had his hands on a hot bloody potato now.

He walked the rest of the distance back to his room, a musty one-room flat that had a pungent smell that he couldn't quite place, and he certainly couldn't find the source of. He wouldn't be sad to see the place go. His cover here had been a temporary one, and he wouldn't need to be coming back. Thank God. He had half a mind to set fire to the place as he left; shame he had to keep a low profile.

But this job had been easy as far as they went. Make the contact, coordinate the exchange, which had been ridiculously easy with the equipment he'd been given. Working with that kind top-notch kit made things so much easier. Unfortunately the methods they had arranged for his extraction would be more strenuous.

He downloaded the information on the coin-receiver to a more secure drive and, fingers trembling, brought up the information on his laptop to verify it. There were eleven documents, all internal memoranda, very limited distribution. It was pretty gutsy of the Indians to even put this kind of material on a computer for even the most limited purposes. It was shocking to see plans for war laid out so casually. If he hadn't trusted his informant, by which he Malik meant he'd been keeping an eye on the man, he would have doubted the authenticity of some of the files. It was exhilarating, like reading someone's thoughts., except he was rifling through some of the most sensitive information India possessed; plans to enter the war in just under a month on the European side, surprise attacks on Commonwealth bases - particularly Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean, which hit Malik close to home, since he˜d be headed there shortly.

Of course there was the clear implication that the Europeans would be launching their own set of surprise attacks on Commonwealth territories. Malik knew negotiations had broken down over the uplinks in the British Isles but he didn't know things were this bad yet. A pit formed in his stomach - the Indians hadn't discussed the European's exact plans for Britain but it couldn't have been good. He stared ominously at the thumb drive that held the files. He wasn't personally privy to policy-making, but he knew the Commonwealth was close to siding with the US over the EF. The uplink negotiations had distanced them even further from Europe; and now this? The British Isles couldn't stand long alone against the continent. There was no choice but to align with another power, and it wouldn't be Russia.

The Indians were relying on the weight of their forces and the factor of surprise. Their Navy wasn˜t a match ship to ship with the Commonwealth, so they were counting on catching them off-guard and off-balance. Their attacks in the Indian Ocean would neutralize the Commonwealth bases, cut off Australia... And with the British Isles being hit hard and fast, there wouldn't be a chance to regroup and hold the line. The best way to defend Britain was at sea, but if the Europeans moved fast enough they could land troops and hold the sea corridor long enough to seal the deal. With the UK out of the way the Europeans expected the rest of the Commonwealth to surrender or go to the Americans piecemeal, but not to mount a counter-attack.

There were discussions of the Chinese factor; the Indians suspected their perennial rival was weak after committing so much to the attacks in Korea and Taiwan, and would be distracted. The Europeans would be making sure they didn't see Chinese troops filling in the Russian gaps in the Eastern Front, although they didn't say so explicitly.

There were other details discussed; trade deals, especially with technology, coordination of the space war, which Malik barely understood. It was clear what each side was getting out of the deal; India was getting an enthusiastic leg-up in technology and resources they desperately needed with the climate crisis hitting them hard, and Europe was evening out the odds with Russia. Invading the British Isles would cost them less than fighting Chinese, they thought. As a matter of fact they thought the people of the former UK and Ireland would see them as liberators eventually.

Malik didn't think he would be greeting the French with anything except some well-placed 7.62mm rounds if they invaded his home in Surrey.

After copying the information to two secure, hardened miniature drives, he had nothing to do but wait until the evening. The room was clear of his belongings, ready to be rented out to the next down on his luck worker or climate migrant. He hoped he would never have to come back to this particular hole in the wall.

He laid in bed for a while, played solitaire on his laptop, re-read the files a few times. It was almost impossible to relax, though. His controller had assured him that this method of pickup was safe, but he had his doubts. He was a doubted lots of things. People called him a skeptic, or paranoid. He was still alive though, and some of them weren't.

He'd never liked swimming much. Never in the ocean, certainly. So much water, so many things he couldn't see, things out of his control. And it was raining, of course. That didn't make anything better. He dreaded the moment all the way down to the ship's berthing. It wasn't a big ship, just a coastal passenger ferry, not more than ten crew, a couple hundred passengers. They wouldn't be going far out to sea, just a safe distance from the coast. He wondered what had determined the ˜safe' distance. He was very familiar with the ship's route, because the rendezvous had to be coordinated through him. He would get a signal when the pick-up boat was close, and he'd have a short window to make the transfer.

The pick-up point was about an hour away, but Malik checked for the signal every other minute. The receiver for this signal wasn't so inconspicuous as the coin; they had just piggybacked it onto his cell phone to keep things simple. Which was fine for him because it just made him look like a nervous guy waiting for a call or a text message. Which was just about correct.

The rain was relentless, fat and heavy. Despite his slicker he still felt wet; was that sweat? No way to tell now, even standing under the deck's covering the moisture infiltrated the very air around him; sea spray. Just thinking about the ocean made him a little sick inside - not seasick, mind you, but a little sick with worry. Even with the cell phone beacon he had, would the boat really find him in this soup?

He hung over the rail and watched the water rushing past. The crew was all inside; they knew they didn't have to be out in the rain, just like the other passengers. A few had come out briefly for fresh air before disappearing back inside. This was as good a spot as any for the first object to go overboard. He pulled out his laptop, hard drive already removed, and dropped it into the ocean. No need to have it on him weighing him down later.

He watched the laptop splash into the water and disappear abruptly beneath the waves. He kept watching long after it was gone, too. The sea swallowed up so many things, he could easily be next.

Eventually he checked his cell phone, and the telltale marker was lit. His heart skipped a beat and he glanced at the doorway to the passenger section. Nobody was there or nearby. As calmly as he could, he took down one of the life preservers stashed in the covering above, and holding it tightly to his chest, heaved himself overboard.

The water rushed up to meet him, warm and slightly choppy. He kicked his legs, swimming away from the hull of the ship as it slid rapidly by. In moments it was already half-obscured by the rain, in minutes it was far out enough that it was hardly recognizable. The quiet sounds of the rain and the water were the only thing he heard, beside his own rattled breathing. If he ever found the person who had dreamt up this damned technique...

He waited and waited there, holding his life preserver tight, bobbing in the sea. The pickup boat would be waiting, too, for the passenger ship to be far enough out so there was no chance of detection. He wished they wouldn't have been so paranoid as he treaded water slowly, imagining all the things that could have gone wrong. It was just him, the water and his thoughts at the moment. Or so he thought.

A red light flashed into existence out of the dark, only a few feet away.

"Red." came the challenge.

"Herring!" he probably shouldn't have shouted. He quickly re-composed himself as the light drew closer. It was a dinghy, a little rubber boat with an electric motor; silent as death itself gliding across the water, but this boat was his savior.

Strong arms pulled him out of the water and into the boat, and held him down securely as the boat nimbly spun around and zipped away over the water. He didn't even see the outline of the submarine until they were right on top of it, literally; the men drove the dinghy right up onto the side of the sub and scrambled up the sides. Someone put a rope into Malik's hands and helped steady him as he clumsily made his way aboard, and into safety. A sailor greeted him on board, took him inside, and most importantly of all, gave him a hot thermos of tea.

"You know, I thought for a while you wouldn't find me. Sorry I doubted you."

The sailor laughed. "We almost didn't, what with all the rain. The zodiac (Malik later discovered that was the dinghy) was almost out of battery power when it found you; didn't they mention that.?"

Malik sat down heavily. _Never again _. 


	5. Chapter 5

Sgt. Ma Fei pressed up against the wall, inhaling sharply as he did. The smells of the battle filled his nostrils- smoke, blood, all the rest. It was a familiar scent, but he took no relish in it. He'd had more than enough of that the last few months. He probed around the corner with an optic-fiber snake camera, and nearly had it shot off for the trouble. Sure enough, the defenders had set up another line of resistance at the crossroads up ahead. At least one machine-gun nest, probably more. He could see little of anything else through the smoke and rubble. All those broken buildings gave the bad guys too many places to hide. He was losing men in every push he made. Already in the last two hours the platoon was down by ten, and those were the casualties he knew about. There was enough rubble in the street here to give his men cover as they advanced. Reluctantly he keyed his mic.

"_First section, get set up for covering fire on the next push_." He spoke into his headset. He didn't really need to give the order, though. It was tired, old routine now. It felt like they'd been doing this for a lifetime. They'd fought their way across the whole length and width of the damned island, and even when they finished, Sgt. Ma knew they wouldn't even be close to finished. This whole bloody affair was just round one. As if to punctuate his thought, an artillery shell screamed in and slammed into the building across the street, exploding in brief fire and throwing up a cloud of dust, smoke, and projectile rubble. A brick skidded across the wall in front of Ma Fei and past his troops. It was a hell of a round one.

"Ours or theirs?" Cpl. Wei asked, as first section stormed into the building behind them.  
"Hell, how should I know?" As he answered, he reflected on how little artillery the other side had left operating here. "Probably ours, actually." He took a moment to pull up the local artillery frequency in his HUD and send them a 'lift fire' warning, along with his unit's coordinates.

"Assholes." Wei lifted his visor slightly to spit. Ma Fei was more concerned about the next attack.

"_2cd section, smoke the street_."

Three men lobbed smoke grenades high into the air and into the street. Gray-white smoke poured out into the street, obscuring it completely. It was a tactic out of the old playbook, truth be told. Five years ago it would have given concealment for his attacking force, but any modernized force would usually have a thermal viewer for every three men. All of Ma Fei's Marines had them integrated into their HUD, although the replacements were... _encouraged strongly _to give their batteries to more seasoned marines.

If they were lucky, the defenders wouldn't have any thermal goggles handy. It wasn't that far-fetched; they were on their last legs. Smoke grenades were cheap, and so were prayers. The defenders opened up with the MG, They might as well have called out over the rubble, "We can't see you!"

"PL, we're set." Sgt Zhang said, over Ma's shoulder. It still felt strange to answer to 'PL', or 'Platoon Leader'. It wasn't so long ago that he'd been a squad leader, one of many in the platoon, and now he was a severely up-jumped sergeant and platoon leader, after coming through the mountains. The snipers especially liked to go after leaders. Ma Fei had learned to keep his head low and his position discreet. It had kept him alive so far, and he really enjoyed breathing.

"All right, give them a few more seconds. As soon as they slack up on their fire, you go. Signal 1st section when you go."

"Got it, Boss." Not too long ago Zhang was his buddy. Now he was his subordinate. Promotion by vacuum wasn't the most gentle thing in the world. It should never have happened like this; their unit was supposed to have been relieved after the initial landings, instead they were thrown into battle after battle, their ranks fleshed out with raw recruits, who either died in the next fight or worse, got the more experienced marines killed. Maybe one out of ten lasted long enough to become a useful soldier.

So far all of the replacements had been lower-enlisted, no NCOs or officers. One day the platoon would be handed off to an officer, and he'd go back to leading a squad. That was a day that Ma Fei looked forward to on the one hand, and dreaded on the next. All the unit needed was a replacement calling the shots. Then they truly might all get killed. It was a miracle the company hadn't been decapitated the way his platoon had been, and the XO had made it through the campaign alive. He knew how to keep his head down, too. The XO wasn't his first choice for commanding officer, but at least he'd been with them the whole time. Even if he wasn't the smartest guy in the unit, he still learned with experience, and he'd had plenty of that.

The machine-gun fire stopped abruptly. Whether they were reloading, shifting position, conserving ammo - it didn't matter. It was time to go. Men in green-gray armor rushed past Sgt. Ma Fei and Cpl. Wei, his bodyguard. For a moment there was no shooting, just the sound of boots crunching through gravel, uniforms brushing on armor. It didn't last. He didn't know who opened up first, but 1st section's guns were drowning out any other fire in a heartbeat.

"Let's go, Wei." he clicked on his thermal overlay and turned the corner. It was a grainy, imperfect image, but he could see through the smoke well enough to find cover behind a ruined pillar. Cpl Wei kept his distance, ducking into a doorway nearby. The defenders were already falling back, and paying dearly as they tried. They must have thought the men attacking them would have the same problem with the smoke. The price for anyone who made that assumption was a bullet in the back. Ma Fei shot at three, two of which fell, whether from his shot or not, he couldn't say. He also didn't care. He'd stopped counting how many men he'd killed after his second, and that had been a lifetime ago.

"_Move it up!_" he radioed, as he dashed forward to the next available cover, behind a pile of rubble. "_First section, I want you in the next building up. Second provides flank security._"

One building at a time, street by street, that was the nature of this fight. This fight had been quick, almost painless. Sometimes it took hours and gallons of blood to make the same advance. The enemy was weak here, but Sgt. Ma Fei didn't opt to push his luck and press the attack. The whole battalion was fighting on line, and pushing out too far ahead would just make his platoon a target for a quick and merciless counter-stroke. Slow and steady was just fine, especially with artillery and air superiority like they enjoyed here.

To either side of his platoon, more dark-uniformed marines were pushing forward through the low buildings. Tai-tung was never a very big city, now it was a modest-sized collection of wrecked buildings. The civilian population had fled the city a week ago, ahead of the battle, so at least Ma Fei and his men weren't tripping over their corpses in the street in addition to their actual foes. It never sat right with Ma Fei to see a dead civilian - he had a wife back in Sichuan and each dead woman seemed to have her face as he stepped over her. At least he didn't have children - he'd seen plenty dead kids along the way and just the thought of seeing his future child's face on them was bone-chilling enough.

His platoon met no resistance inside the building, so they settled in while the rest of the battalion caught up. Sgt. Ma took a moment to eat a few bites of some crackers he'd found the day before and a few sips from his water bladder. Fighting in full gear was an exhausting exercise and he needed to keep his strength up by eating when he could. Drinking was even more vital.

Soon it came time for another push from his platoon. Again, he snaked his camera around another corner as his platoon assumed position to advance. At first he saw nothing, but after scanning around for a minute a man emerged from behind a heap of rubble. He wasn't crawling, running or shooting - he was holding his hands up, and in one hand he held a dirty white cloth.

"About ****ing time," He spoke aloud. Cpl Wei frowned at him.

"They're surrendering, Wei. You know what this means? This is the last pocket on the island. War's over for Taiwan. People's Marine Corps one, Rim assholes, zero."

Sgt. Fei took a deep breath and stepped out into the road. It wasn't a good idea at all - he was a perfect target for a sniper. His heart skipped a few beats, but no bullet came his way. The man with the improvised white flag did head his way, however. As he got closer Ma Fei could see defeat looming over the man like a cloud. His uniform was torn and dirty, even more so than he would expect, he carried no weapon, but his eyes were the most telling; there was no fight left, just bitterness. The Taiwanese and their allies had put up a tough fight for the island, but there was nothing left of their armies here but broken men and machines. Ma Fei was surprised it had come all this way. Sure, Rim forces had surrendered before, but it was always just pockets, just like this one. Except this one was the last pocket.

Maybe they had been holding out for a miracle, but unlike the South Koreans, they didn't have several million men to suddenly switch sides and ride to their rescue. Even the Americans had their limits, although they had been wreaking havoc on the supply lanes across the Taiwan strait. No, the taiwanese were through.

"Right this way, friend."


	6. Chapter 6

December 2 2020, Outside Pyongyang, PDRK

Sgt. Sato stepped out of the People's Army truck and into the frigid winter air. He slung one bag over his shoulder and pulled out another, and nodded to the driver before the Northerner drove off. It was hell finding transport to the front, but at least he didn't have much to carry. It was a little surprising that he had anything to carry at all, but somehow his gear had made it's way to him just a couple weeks after he had been casevaced away from the fighting, while he was still recovering. Plenty of soldiers in the field hospital never got their gear from the front; he was lucky.

The ground was mud, frozen solid, with a dusting of snow that had fallen the night before. It crunched under Sato's boots as he walked through the camp. Everything larger than one of his duffel bags was covered in camouflage netting, and anything that gave off heat was covered by a thermal shroud as well. It was clear this camp was in the enemy's sights. Every dozen meters or so and there was the charred evidence of something that hadn't been concealed well enough. Chinese attack jets still made it this deep into their lines, and their controllers probably knew Tiger Brigade operated in the area, so anything there was a priority target for them. Hopefully they hadn't hit anything he'd miss.

Ever since they had touched down on the Korean peninsula his unit had dealt with supply issues. At first it was the normal Rim-Forces logistical screw-up that hurt them, then the problem shifted shape as they came under fire. When a supply truck goes up, it means soldiers going hungry, or without batteries, ammo, or replacement parts such as his old helmet visor. A lot of supply trucks got hit before his unit got into Seoul, or even before Cuwong. Some of their more complex equipment, their exoskeleton-based heavy weapon squads especially, were missed. As he walked past another pile of charred equipment he hoped those suits weren't in there.

He passed a few mortar pits carved into the frozen earth and covered with the ubiquitous snow-covered camouflage on his way to battalion HQ. HQ itself was just a collection of shrouded tents and pits, the only main distinction of which was that there was a loose ring of guards checking Id cards and frisking visitors for weapons on the way in. Even he was stopped, searched, and asked to leave his weapon outside the loose perimeter before continuing on in. From the half-muttered answers the guard gave during the search, there was a very real fear of Chinese infiltrators.

Sato found his company commander hunched over a map, furtively taking a drag on a cigarette just outside one of the pits. Captain Zhou was a smaller man, with dark eyes under bushy eyebrows. Sato was more used to seeing him in his armor than not, so seeing him without it made him seem even smaller, even bundled up in cold-weather gear as he was. When he saw Sato coming he discreetly put out the cigarette and stood up.

"You didn't see that Sergeant." He said abruptly. Captain Zhou's sense of humor was sometimes too dry for its own good. Combine that with the odd way he spoke, so quick and abrasively that sometimes Sato couldn't tell joke from otherwise. His smoking habit was one thing he was almost sure was a continuing joke. Supposedly he had 'quit' smoking before the war, but every time Sato turned around, Captain Zhou was half-secretly bumming a cigarette from one of the men. There wasn't a man in the company that didn't know he smoked.

"Of course not sir."

Zhou looked him up and down, and after a moment said, "It'll be good to have you back Sato. We lost some good NCOs before we were done with Seoul, one of which was you. The replacements we got after that need good leaders if they're going to survive our next dance with the Chinese."

"Any word on when that is sir?" It was never too soon to start digging for intel.

Zhou gave him another look. "No word. But get your men ready. I'm putting you back in charge of your fire team. Sergeant Wang from 2cd platoon was filling in while you were away. I'm sure he'll be pleased to see you." What he meant by that was that Wang would be pleased to get out from underneath Platoon-Sergeant Katsuo's scrutinizing eyes. "This war's a whole new ball game now, Sato. We started this out as the sole focus of China, now we've got the US and the Commonwealth backing us up, and the Northerners are on our side. Plus India's moving to take home Chinese territory; you can bet your *** they won't be happy about that. All of that means less pressure on you and me. That opens doors for us, if you take my meaning, Sergeant."

"Yes, sir. Can't wait to get back in the mix sir." That much was true. Sato was tired of kicking around the medical system, never sure what the army was going to do with him. Being back in his unit, back with his men, that was something he knew. It was hard to share the Capain's enthusiasm, though. Didn't he know Taiwan had fallen only a week ago? The Pacific Rim Alliance didn't have an abundance of territory it could afford to lose. Losing Taiwan hurt badly. It did make all the Taiwanese that were still fighting abroad veritable devils, though. Sato expected to have to tread carefully with Private Ling, a native of that island.

"Right. Get to your men. Our company is that way, two-hundred meters." Captain Zhou pointed, and turned back to his map.

"Thank you, sir." Sato said as he left.

Shouldering his gear again, he crunched off through the snow in the direction of the men, passing a cluster of concealed vehicles and resupply drones, randomly arranged instead of the neat, orderly lines of a motor pool in the rear. Lining things up around here was asking to get them hit. In fact, not too far from camp he'd passed a decoy camp set up to attract attention by making careless 'mistakes' like that. 1st battalion men were milling about, some smoking, others just chatting. Some men recognized him and waved or greeted him warmly as he passed, others saw the 1st battalion uniform and bags and filled in the blanks.

Sato could tell the unit hadn't seen serious fighting for a while, from the state of the uniforms if nothing else. There was nothing like a good fight to get soldiers dirty.

"Hey, Sergeant Sato! He's back!" Sato recognized Ling's voice floating out of a fighting position not too far ahead. Ling climbed out of the hole, followed closely by Matsui and Cpl. Misuro. They ran out and embraced him, even stone-faced Misuro.

"Sergeant Wang must be a real *** if you're this happy to see me." Sato said after they were done.

"Well we weren't sure that you'd made it when they took you out Sarge. And Cpl. Misuro took over before Sergeant Wang did." Ling said, grimacing playfully.

"_Private_ Ling didn't appreciate my leadership skills properly." Misuro shrugged vaguely.

"Private Ling is willfull and skittish. You just need to use the whip every so often. Where's Sergeant Wang? I'm taking over again."

Misuro yanked a thumb in the direction of the next fighting position.

"Thanks guys."

He dropped his gear and went into the next fighting hole, where Sergeant Wang was busy writing something in a notebook.

"Sergeant Wang," he said. Wang looked up from his notebook and stood in the cramped space.

"Ah, welcome back, Sergeant. I thought it'd take a few days to get here, we just got the word from medical that you were released. Can't say I'm sorry though -"

"Platoon Sergeant Katsuo? Yeah, he's not my favorite, either."

Wang smiled broadly.

"I can't say I'm sorry to be going. Sgt. Katsuo is just a little too observant for my liking."

"Tell me about it. So, how are things going in the team? Where are the new guys?"

"There's five of them, all young as hell. Four we got from regular army, one just out of the new training program. They've only been here two and a half weeks, closest thing to combat is the air strikes we've gotten, which aren't that serious, only one or so a night. They're good kids but I'm not so sure how they're going to do the first fight we get into. They're in the next two holes over."

"Right… Any of them Taiwanese?"

Wang took a moment before he answered, darkly. "No. I am though."

Sato nodded silently. He didn't probe any further. "Thanks for the help, Wang. Whenever you're ready you can head back to 2cd platoon."

The air strikes came in the night, just like Wang said. It came suddenly and without warning, just an explosion out of the dark without so much as the scream of jets overhead. It woke Sato and the others out of a fitful sleep in the hole, but not much else. They were too well-concealed, with the camo and heat discipline for any accurate strike on their positions, and the air attacks weren't coming down in great numbers on them anyway. Sato had lived through far worse bombardments in the South. More attacks hit the distant south, in the direction of the decoy camps, though. That he was thankful for.

The Chinese would be paying for those attacks, though. Allied aircraft were giving the Chinese a though time all the way from Singapore to Alaska. They weren't winning every fight, but they had won enough to take the pressure off of the rear areas. Things had gotten a lot better in the air since the New Commonwealth had come in on their side, even though the Indians were giving them trouble in the Indian Ocean. They were also giving the Chinese a hard time, so the whole equation gave the Korean Peninsula a little relief.

Which was also what was keeping Sato up at night. It was clear the Chinese were off balance, that their plans for Korea hadn't gone well. That was a recipe for High Command to try an offensive in the area. And the way things looked around camp, it was going to be sooner rather than later. Tiger Brigade, and his battalion would be leading the charge when an attack came, right into the teeth of the Chinese defenses. The whole area was mountainous, crisscrossed with hills. It was defender's land, and taking it would be bloody business, vaunted Tiger Brigade or not.

If and when they made their attack, the new guys would get chewed up for sure. Sato just hoped they wouldn't get some of his more experienced men, his friends killed in the process.


	7. Chapter 7

December 13, 25,000 feet above the East China Sea

Lieutenant Watson kept a close watch on his scopes, and on the horizon. Chinese J-13s and Russian Su-38s and 47s never gave their radar much trouble, but J-14s and Su-51s were nothing but trouble, faster and stealthier than his own plane. The past two months the air wings on the Truman, Stennis and Eisenhower had all been hit hard. His squadron was down to half strength, both from birds and pilots lost and lateral transfers to shore up some other units. Replacements were going to be long in coming, too. The Pacific front was not the US's top priority at the moment. Keeping the UK out of European hands was the first order of business; it was a sorely needed beach-head into Europe, shield, and the key to the New Commonwealth. No resource was being spared for that fight, which was by all reports a brutal one. European space-based lasers had that whole area targeted and had already killed thousands of soldiers, sailors and airmen in and around Britain.

Watson had seen video of a few laser strikes, and it was enough to literally give him nightmares. Watson dealt with threats on his life every day, but there was always a way to mitigate the threat. Such as keeping his eyes fixed on his scopes, and the sky. Russian and Chinese jets were something he could deal with. He actually felt safer in the sky sometimes than he did on the Truman. While he was up in the clouds, he had a measure of control over what happened. Back in his rack he felt like he was living in the middle of a bull's eye. It didn't help him sleep in what little time he had. At least the Europeans had to live under the threat of Kinetic Rod retaliation. That and they shared a continent with the Russians. That was not something to be taken lightly. In fact that thought made Watson feel a little better.

At least the Chinese didn't have a super-weapon they could train on the fleet easily. The main worry was tactical nukes, launched from attack jets and subs, but if they opened that door, it would only be a matter of time before they regretted it. Tactical nukes were great for taking out concentrations of troops and fleets, but the US had both tactical and strategic WMD capability; the ability to hit the Chinese where hard they lived made them think twice about using those nukes.

"_Approaching checkpoint 3. Keep your eyes peeled, this is where Beanie and Cocoa bought it last week."_

As if he needed reminder. This whole sector they were entering was a hotbed of enemy fighter activity. For the next hour he'd be right in the crosshairs of enemy fighters. The corridor they were in was close enough for them to pick them up on long-range radar systems, far enough out that they weren't in range of continental SAMs. The large land-based radar systems could usually pick them up, but in order to engage them the Chinese had to send out their own fighters to intercept, usually in enough strength to comfortably handle them. Sometimes they could call in backup, sometimes not. It was a pretty even fight, unfortunately. But there hadn't been any incidents yet today. There was still plenty of time for something to go wrong, though.

Watson flexed his stiff arms and legs. Lately he had an ache he just shouldn't shake off, probably from being cooped up in his cockpit endlessly and not getting enough rest.

Not for the first time, Watson's thoughts drifted to the war in space. The fight up there was not well publicized, unlike the North Atlantic or Pacific theaters. There weren't any TV crews or journalists up there keeping tabs on the action. Any news that trickled down came from the military itself - good luck with that! Anything that came down was cryptic at best. Watson imagined it was a wild melee, the Freedom Star being the eye of the hurricane. There were three factions fighting up there, more than a dozen nation's worth of satellites, most of which weren't originally designed for combat, some of which were born and bred hunter-killers. The F-Star, as most military men referred to it, was still up there somehow, despite everything. Watson would have thought that it would have been taken out at the start of the war, easy pickings for a European laser platform, but amateur astronomers confirmed that it was still up there.

The only reason the F-Star was still up there was the Europeans couldn't touch it yet. He knew the orbital lasers had the range, but they also needed targeting data to make a shot count. Watson's missiles had a nominal range of over a hundred km, but he needed to know where the enemy was to make the shot. The F-Star was in geo-sync over the US, as safe as safe could be in space, and Watson guessed it was ringed with radar jamming equipment. Optical data wouldn't be accurate enough for a laser strike, they would need the exact data from radar, and radar was one thing Watson dealt with regularly. They would need to get a satellite close enough to burn through the jammers and get a signal out to the laser platforms. And that signal was difficult enough to secure without an uplink station nearby. Unless Watson missed his mark, the ring of jammers was keeping the F-Star up, but they would be under attack from Euro H-K satellites, too. The day the F-Star fell would be the last day that Watson got any sleep in the Truman.

It was a clear day, and Watson could see all the way down to the blue ocean water below him. It was less friendly than it looked, loaded with enemy subs playing a deadly game of hide-and-seek with allied subs. The rest of the Chinese fleet was staying in port after the battle of Taiwan strait, where they lost their two of four total carriers in the American air attack. Watson still ran into Chinese naval flyers every now and then, usually operating out of land bases on Taiwan or the mainland. They were some of the most dangerous opponents he ran into; recklessly aggressive, willing to do anything to take down a few Americans.

Watson scanned the horizon again, out of the corner of his eye he saw distant movement and the radio crackled to life.

"_Contact! Tally, 4 plus bogeys, 4'oclock high, estimated distance 60 miles out, closing!_"

"_This is Half-life, look alive people, there are no friendlies operating in the area. Those are probably 14s looking to mix it up. We'll take 'em head-on, keep things close people we can't track them at range._" Watson could barely hear the edge of fear in the flight leader's voice. There were four of them, and at least four bogeys; whatever they were they were stealthy enough to stay undetected on radar and get close, real close. And there could easily be more they hadn't seen yet. They had only seconds before missiles started flying.

"_Truman, this is Half-life. Contact, four bandits 60 miles CBDR. Engaging._"

"_Half-life, Truman, good hunting._" There was little else to say; at that close range there was not much else to do except turn into the attack and hope for the best.

Watson's radar warning light came on - the game was on now.

"_Sprocket, Nails 51 miles bearing 110!_"  
The bandits finally showed on his radar scopes.

"_Weapons free. Half-life, Fox 3._" Watson flipped his safety off and launched his own AIM-120f alongside three others. The 14s launched their own Adder missiles a heartbeat later. Those would close the gap in a handful of seconds, but there was a decent chance to evade. Not much chance to eject if things went wrong though.

"_Eskimo, Jamming._" The squadron had run out of KA-14 duck decoy missiles not long ago. They were down to jamming pods, which were re-usable, but also made the jammer a missile-magnet since the Adders would go for the source. They took turns carrying the pods, since they were so dangerous to carry. Three pilots had died carrying the pod since they started carrying them a month ago. This time it was his wingman's turn to carry the bull's eye.

Watson watched the Adders streak their way, and took a deep breath.

The flight broke into evasive maneuvers. the Adders would be going for the jamming, but he'd learned not to take chances. Watson pulled hard on his stick, banking hard to port. He watched the missiles head for Joe Hernandez's plane, his heart breaking. He watched three missiles streak past Joe's plane as he banked wildly, and the last explode above the wing. Joe's plane broke apart instantly as Watson watched. He gripped the flight controls so hard he thought they would snap apart in his hands, and he half-growled half-screamed in rage in his cockpit. One more friend dead over the Pacific.

Their own missiles took out two Chinese, small comfort. Dead enemies didn't bring back friends. He brought his plane back in line with the incoming jets. Dead enemies did mean no more dead friends, though. To mention nothing of himself.

"_Sprocket, Fox 2!_" The missile roared off the rails and raced out to the Chinese, and Watson started turning to catch the Chinese after they passed. He strained against the Gs to try to keep an eye on the Chinese as they passed, the edges of his vision draining away from the pull. His missile shot past the Chinese.

"_Half-Life, Lizard defensive, he's pulling onto your six, break right, pull 'em to me!_"

Watson watched as the three planes started their deadly dance. That left number four to him. He scanned for a few tense heartbeats before he found the bandit, already trying to turn into him. Watson growled a curse and reversed his turn to try and cut in. He was close enough now to get a good look; it was a naval aviation J-14. Small wonder they had risked an attack with even numbers, ambush or not.

Now it was a matter of who could out-turn who. His F-35 only had a slight advantage there, so he had to push himself to the limit. The jet could take more stress than he could - he had to ride the edge of his limits if he was going to come out of this alive. The force of the turn pinned him against his seat, threatened to pull his hands off the flight controls. He strained to keep his eyes on his adversary.

"_Sprocket, he just splashed Half-life!_"

Watson cursed again, and pulled back harder on the stick. These guys were not getting away. Slowly, the enemy plane crept into his sights, tone sounded, and he launched.

"_Sprocket, Fox 2._" He growled, watching the missile streak forward. The 14 popped flares but the AIM-9 didn't bite, and hit the spine of the Chinese jet, breaking it in two fiery pieces.

"_Lizard, Fox 2! …splash one, sprocket did you get yours?_"

"_…yeah. Splash one._"

"_Roger. Sprocket I have eyes on you._" After Lt. Commander Jack 'Half-life' King, Watson was the next in line for command of the decimated flight. It fell to him to call Truman.

"_Truman, Sprocket. Bandits destroyed. Be advised, Half-life and Eskimo were splashed. No chutes._"

"_Roger, Sprocket, we monitored all. You are ordered RTB at this time for refit._"

"_Acknowledged. Back to the barn._" He'd had enough for one day anyway.

Watson and his new wingman turned and set course for home just as the first charred wreckage of the fight hit the waves below. 


	8. Chapter 8

January 14 2021, Yalu River, North Korea

Cpl. Choi Bae wondered idly where his old foxhole was. It was almost impossible to find his old sector on the river; the landscape had been swept by two battles now. The riverbanks had been raked back and forth by artillery from both sides, and a dozen kilometers to the north the Americans had unleashed their kinetic rods on a Chinese formation. The landscape there was unrecognizable, and the Chinese had been annihilated. Bae had heard it was only a smaller scale attack as well. It was too bad he didn't have time to sight-see, otherwise he would liked to have seen the devastation.

When they'd retreated from the Yalu months ago he hadn't thought they would ever be able to push the Chinese back. They just kept coming in endless waves, well-equipped, and more relentless and lethal with each attack. The retreat from the Yalu had been chaotic, the Chinese pursuit units just one step behind him for miles until the People's Army could stop them again, and even then it was only temporary. Bae was separated from his unit early in the retreat, and much later found out the majority of it had been captured near the Yalu and he was one of a handful that eluded capture. They'd promoted him for surviving and reassigned him to a new unit being made out of pieces of the others.

Things had moved quickly since the new unit was formed. The Southerners and their allies were everywhere; Japanese, Filipinos, Taiwanese, even some American units were holding places in the line. Americans! On Korean People's soil - it was unthinkable. The Americans were supposed to be their sworn enemies. Now they were helping defend both Koreas. They had even supplied the People's army with much needed fuel; and rumors were spreading like wildfire that they were not anything like what the State's movies made them out to be. Everything he had been brought up to believe was being systematically destroyed, the whole world seemed to be turned upside down these days.

Bae looked out from his new foxhole out over the river. It was a whole new situation. Now the Chinese were the ones on the defensive, waiting for Bae and his new friends to try to cross the river. Thankfully this time around the river was frozen solid, not nearly the obstacle it was when the Chinese were trying to cross. Even the most heavy vehicles could cross without worry of falling through the ice. Of course the reason the river was solid ice was because the temperature was far below 0 Celsius. Bae and his men were used to it, though. They trained in these temperatures every year and knew how to live and fight in all but the worst of it. He imagined the US Marine units in the North-East facing off against the Russians there were freezing their American balls off.

The attack across the river was going to be the biggest fight he'd been in since the Chinese had come across it before, maybe even bigger. At least this time he had real air support; every few hours jets appeared overhead and tried to make an attack on the Chinese lines. SAMs shot up from their lines, sometimes catching a jet, most of the time not, and less missiles came up each time. Naval rail-gun bombardment had been drizzling in all day like a light rain, although the Chinese probably didn't appreciate it the way he did. Each time a round hit a great geyser of dirt and rock shot into the air, sometimes accompanied by a satisfying explosion. Some of those hits had to be costing the Chinese dearly.

Chinese artillery hit back each day as well, but not like before. They were being stretched thinly now, he could tell the Chinese were conserving their ammunition much more carefully now. And furthermore, Bae's unit was no longer a priority target. It was painfully clear that his unit was nowhere near as well-equipped as their new allies, so the Chinese didn't see them as a threat worthy of artillery bombardment. Bae was fine with how that worked out, but he thought the Chinese were underestimating them. The one thing he didn't like about working with all these new allies was making sure he was shooting at the right target in a fight. In the firefights on the march back north, five men in his company had been killed by 'friendly' fire. Their uniforms too closely resembled those of the Chinese regulars. It was difficult to memorize the appearances of the uniforms of all the allied nations, so his unit had standing orders not to engage anyone unless they could ID them as Chinese first.

It wouldn't be that hard to figure it out today, though. Bae went from foxhole to foxhole, checking on his men. They were a little nervous about the operation, but they were optimistic about their chances. They knew on a professional level that some of them would die, just as Bae knew some of them wouldn't make it. But they knew they had a reasonable chance, and that was good enough. He made sure to check their boots; they'd be critical to the attack.

Once satisfied, he returned to his hole to wait. The attack was supposed to begin just before dawn, and the sky was beginning to brighten. Word would come any minute now. He checked his rifle one last time and tightened down all his equipment. His body tingled, whether from nervousness, excitement, or fear he could not say. Each time they attacked on the march back north he had the same feeling beforehand, although he would never admit it to anyone. He checked his rifle again just to keep himself busy.

Then the call came.

"Two minutes!" the soldier in the next foxhole hissed. Bae passed the news on, wondering how long ago 'two minutes' had started. In any case, he wasn't jumping out of his hole until the opening bombardment began. He peered over the edge, along with thousands and thousands of other grunts along the line.

He didn't have to wait long, and the spectacle didn't disappoint. The bombardment was perfectly timed. Before he even heard the scream of the shells, the opposite bank exploded all at once in a hundred different hits. A moment later the noise caught up with the view, a thunderclap that shook him even at his distance. Smoke shells poured out huge clouds of the stuff, obscuring the far banks.

Bae scrambled out of his foxhole with everyone else, made his way down to the riverbank with his squad, and started running out over the ice. The rhythmic sounds of metal cleats biting into the ice mixed with the continuing bombardment. Chinese shells began to answer, coming down on the frozen river. Chunks of ice flew into the air, and shrapnel sliced into men. Bae kept running, no matter what exploded around him or what carnage he had to run past.

The frozen river was about five hundred meters across at the point he was crossing, so by the time he was nearing the far bank he was breathing hard. He was in excellent shape, but the weight of all the gear he was carrying, which included his sleeping bag (leaving that behind was unthinkable in these temperatures), was too much to ignore. So he wasn't going at top speed, but that was all right, because the last thing he wanted to do was get to the other side early, while the bombardment was still raining in.

He was beginning to worry about having done just that as he neared the cloud of smoke and exploding rock and dirt that was the enemy lines, but the bombardment lifted when he was still 50 meters from the bank. It was time for one last heart-pounding sprint, and he was running as fast as he dared through the smoke, up onto the bank of the river. To his right a mine exploded out into the smoke, vaporizing one half of a man who was too close when it went off. _Welcome to China._

The smoke cleared abruptly after a few meters of ground, and Bae entered the fray the same way any sane infantryman did; by immediately finding and taking cover. In his case, cover turned out to be the burned out hulk of a tank, probably from the first battle of the Yalu. From the other side of the river, it didn't look like anything could have survived the bombardment, but Bae knew better. Someone always survived long enough to shoot you, that was the rule for any bombardment.

Bae poked his head around the edge of the tank for a heartbeat, then again, in a different spot over the top of the hull. Someone took notice and sent a few rounds his way, ricocheting off the tank's hull as he ducked down again. He waited a moment before making his next appearance, this time with his rifle up. He popped up and sent two three-round bursts at the nearest muzzle flash, and popped back down, not waiting to find out if he'd hit his mark or not. He repeated the process two times and made his next rush up, jumping into a foxhole the enemy had kindly prepared for him. Unfortunately, the original tenant hadn't been quite so kind as to have left before dying, so it was a crowded foxhole for the time being.


	9. Chapter 9

January 29 2021, Diego Garcia Island, Indian Ocean

It was a hot, muggy day in the Indian Ocean. Diego Garcia Base was no exception to the heat; it smothered the Island like a hot, wet blanket. The only thing Jayadeep felt like doing was finding an air-conditioned building and lying down, but that didn't happen to be one of his options. Instead of beating the heat, Jayadeep was out in the worst of it, doing manual labor. Since there wasn't much use for an intel operative on the island at the moment, he had been 'volun-told' to help the work gangs setting up obstacles on the beaches. Everyone on the Island was working in some capacity toward its defense, whether they were soldiers or not. SAM sites, coastal batteries were being built and fortified, the airfield was being expanded and hardened, and the uplink building was so heavily reinforced it was hardly recognizable anymore. Of course the airtight security surrounding it was a dead giveaway.

The uplink site was half the reason Diego Garcia was such a priority for the Commonwealth and the US alike. Its absolutely secure and un-jammable signal was key to the space war above, not to mention communications for the South Indian Ocean, which was a vital convoy link for Australia and New Zealand to South Africa, and from there to Great Britain and the US. Keeping the uplink operational kept the base operational, which kept the Africa-Australia link safe. India knew that all too well.

The Indian Navy had attacked Diego Garcia as part of its opening assault, striking with its full strength, but with Malik's intelligence tipping them off, the NC and US had been able to lay a trap for them. Attack subs sank two of four Indian carriers before they could launch aircraft, and the rest of the US/NC forces in the Indian Ocean were able to consolidate before the Indian attack hit. But even then, it was a close fight. Even with the NC and US combining forces, there was just too many battles to fight across the planet for them to meet the Indians with overwhelming force. The combined fleet was hit hard by the air strike, defended only by the squadrons at Diego Garcia, which weren't exactly the most elite forces available. Ten ships were sunk, thousands of sailors were dead. The Indians felt the loss of their carriers and the aircraft on them sorely, and the attack subs exacted a heavy toll on the Indians on their way home as well, sinking a couple of cruisers and a number of supply ships.

At the end of the day, the Indians lost too much of their striking power to take the Island, and the US-Commonwealth forces were severely bloodied. Offensive operations against Indian assets in the area were out of the question except for the attack subs, which had largely escaped harm in the attacks. Fortunately the Indian fleet had little experience in sub-hunting, while the American and British had years of experience from the cold war and now the Russian resurgence. For the time being, they had been able to consistently elude the Indians.

Malik planted his shovel in the damp sand and scooped it away. Just a little deeper here and they could plant the leg to one of the beach obstacles here. Hot wind blew in off of the ocean and the sun beat down on him. He wore a wide-brimmed hat and a loose shirt to keep the worst off but there was only so much one could do. He took a swig of warm water from his canteen and went back to his work before his hole filled back in.

Diego Garcia remained a thorn in the side of India. Everyone knew that sooner or later they would try and pluck it out, so everyone on the island was bending over backwards to prepare it for an attack. Equipment was being shipped in from South Africa, a new squadron of aircraft arrived from Canada, and warships were on their way from Australia and New Zealand, as well as a few Rim Alliance subs. Of course Diego Garcia wasn't the only move the Indians had made; they were also moving in on Singapore, a smaller but valuable member of the Rim Alliance. They most likely wanted it to cripple the Rim financially and to block attacks coming from the East, not as a jumping point for invading Australia, although that was a possibility. The Indians were mainly concerned with the Chinese; that fight was really starting to heat up in the Himalayas, and Thailand, Myanmar and Vietnam were becoming battlegrounds whether they wanted it or not, with Indian armies moving through headed for China, and Chinese moving to meet them halfway.

That was one place nobody wanted to be. Unfortunately, most people living there had no way out. That kind of war chewed up the little people caught in its way, and Malik doubted China or India cared very much for the people their war would be sweeping to the side. Malik liked to think his side would do things differently, but he knew that once things got ugly, they tended to stay that way.

It was just like the Eastern front in Europe: things had gotten ugly there fast. When the Russians didn't get the breakthrough they were hoping for back in the summer, they had launched a surprise chemical attack all along the front. The Europeans weren't fully prepared at the time, but they didn't lose as much ground as the Russians wanted them to. The Europeans didn't have a stock of chemical weapons when the war had started. Now if you were anywhere near the frontlines in Poland and you didn't have a gas mask, chances you were already dead. That included civilians. Fortunately, neither the Russians nor the boys in blue had turned their chemical arsenals on the Commonwealth or any of its allies, and Malik had a feeling nobody there intended to start. The genie had gotten out of the bottle in Eastern Europe though, and good luck getting it back in.

"Mr. Bradley," a man said from behind him.

Malik thrust his shovel into the sand and turned around. Even here he was still operating under an alias; one never could be too careful.

"Yes?"

"You've been requested at the headquarters building sir, I'm to take you there." the man gestured to his land rover waiting on the path that substituted for a road in this part of the island. Malik was only too glad to comply, leaving his shovel for the work crew, he climbed into the passenger seat and they rolled off down the path. With the wind in his face and under the shade of the canvas top of the rover, the heat seemed less intense and he may have even stopped sweating while they drove. HQ was on the other end of the island, so Malik had time to enjoy the view as they drove; the ships in the harbor, the long stretches of beach lined with thousands of obstacles frothing in the surf, and the lines of warplanes ready to scream into the air at a moment's notice at the airstrip. The island was fairly buzzing with activity.

The HQ building itself was only slightly less hardened than the uplink building, reinforced with concrete, hesco baskets and all forms of sandbags. Tall radio masts poked into the sky not far away, merely the backup for the transmission blimp that floated over the building.

Malik was frisked enthusiastically at the entrance, something he had grown used to ever since India's entry into the war. He was grudgingly admitted into the building after a battery of checks, just like every time he had to report to his handlers within.

The HQ building was really a conglomeration of buildings, centered chiefly around the old HQ. Most of the HQ was now based out of modular buildings, shipping-container sized parts pieced together to form offices. Generators were everywhere, sprouting power lines like a tree sent out roots. Satellite dishes and antennae masts poked up through camo netting and thermal shrouds. People of all sorts, uniformed or not, moved briskly from building to building, even in the heat, carrying files or tapping away on PDAs as they went.

Malik made his way to the Commonwealth's Joint Intelligence Center, which was really just an improvised building made from actual shipping containers, now converted into a 2-floor office, and stepped in through the doors and into the cool air inside. They had installed AC since the last time he'd been inside!

"Mr. Bradley, they're waiting for you in conference A," the receptionist told him, before picking up his phone and relaying Malik's arrival.

"Thanks."

'Conference A' was a small room, with a table slightly too large that made sitting very difficult. Half the people in the room sat; the others stood. Malik would have had to climb over several people to make his way to an empty chair, so he chose to stand as well.

"Mr. Malik, good of you to come," Mrs. Keeler said from her seat at the far end of the table. She was Jay deep's primary handler here in Diego; she had sent him on his last mission into Mumbai, and had put him to work after he'd gotten back. She was a bit of a cold woman, he had discovered in the time he'd known her, an older South African with a bit of a chip on her shoulder. Malik still resented being shipped off to work on the beaches instead of doing something more useful where he was now.

"Well, we can begin the briefing now gentlemen." She said, tapping a button and pulling up a projection on the wall, a very broad map of the Pacific-Indian theater, color-coded to show the latest estimated troop positions. India was an enormous mass of blue, running well into the Himalayas, into Laos in the East, and moving south towards Singapore. China looked no less dangerous, ominously occupying Taiwan, although it no longer held any land on the Korean peninsula. Rim Alliance holdings looked meager by comparison.

Keeler wasted no time summarizing the larger situation, instead zooming in the map, loosely centered on Thailand. She pointed to the Andaman Islands, a Indian naval base in the Ocean west of Thailand, and began.

"Mr. Malik." She looked straight at him, and he squirmed slightly in his seat. "I hope you enjoyed your holiday, because it is over as of right now. Tomorrow you will be leaving on your next assignment. This mission will be a relatively open-ended one, gentlemen. The objective is to observe and disrupt enemy activity in Port Blair, especially activity supporting the upcoming attack on Singapore. Supply ships, troop ships are priority targets, and by God, if you get a shot at their Carriers, I expect you to sink them or die in the effort." The map shifted and zoomed in on the Andaman Islands, a chain of tropical islands the Indians had built up heavily to support their new blue-water fleet. If they were going to move east into the islands, they would need that base to protect their supply chain.

Malik smiled inwardly. This was the kind of mission he'd been trained for, watching the enemy and making his life as difficult as possible. This was awfully short notice, but he still itched to ship out as soon as he could.

"You'll be provided with the necessary supplies after you've established yourself on the ground. I know how much you're looking forward to this, Mr. Malik, but I'm afraid I do have some bad news for you." Aw, crap. Here it comes. "As you well know this mission will be protecting our new allies as well as our own territories. Brace yourself, because this mission came down from the highest authorities, and it is a joint mission with the Rim."

Everyone in the room leaned back in their seats, instinctively recoiling. Joint ops were the favorite plaything of the higher-ups. What better way to show mutual support and cooperation than undertaking a mission alongside your ally? More like a good way to get yourself killed. The Commonwealth Intelligence Service, Malik's employer, had a certain way of doing things. Perhaps it wasn't always the best way to do them, but at least he and everyone he worked with at least knew what to expect. Throwing him together with some agent from the Rim was a death sentence. No matter how good the agent was, he would screw things up, or Malik would screw things up because no matter how much they tried not to, sooner or later they would make a mistake. Probably a stupid, simple mistake, something that was second nature, drilled into them in their training, and it would get them killed because the left hand didn't know what the right was doing.

Malik could feel everyone's eyes on him as he digested the news. They were working out his chances of survival, no doubt. He was already done with that, and his chances were crap.

There was silence for another few moments, then Malik sat forward in his chair and spoke.

"Well, I will try to blow something up before they kill us both, Ma'am."


	10. Chapter 10

March 2 2021, Military District of Taipei, Taiwan

Lt. Ma Fei stepped lightly. His shoulders ached from the weight of his armor and his back throbbed and spasmed at night when he tried to sleep. His ribcage was bruised in two spots where his armor had stopped a couple of bullets. Of course he supposed he had to be grateful for those bruises in a way, but he was only grudgingly grateful. All that he could live with, indeed he did live with. It was the fear of his own shadow that was slowly eating away at his soul. In China he had been an honest man, respected in his town; he had never lived with this kind of constant, nagging fear. Ever since the invasion, he'd been looking over his shoulder.

In China, he thought, wistfully. In mainland China he didn't have to worry about snipers drawing a bead on his neck every time he stepped out onto the street. His eyes flitted warily from rooftop to rooftop. It hadn't taken more than a month for the Taiwanese to figure out the weakest spot in his marine's armor, or at least the weakest point that would also yield instantaneous kills. He should have counted himself and his men lucky that their armor was different from regular Army soldiers. Specifically the helmet; he and his marines had better models, which had turned many a sniper's shot that would have splattered the brains of any other Chinese troopers. It had at least bought his men some time, that helmet.

"Almost there," Cpl Wei said, from his usual distance. He was doing his best to hide the fact that he was watching Lt. Ma's back, always keeping close by, but never quite in the same spot. He was just ahead of Ma Fei now, craning his neck as if trying to see into the second-story windows of the apartament they were passing. On the opposite side of the street squads of Marines stalked past sunken-eyed civilians, stepping around piles of rubble, potholes, and any trash in the street.

"Watch this dumpster," Wei said. Lt. Ma gave it a wide berth. He was 99% sure that there was just rotting, stinking trash in the overflowing dumpster, but there was a very real possibility there was a foul-smelling but no-less potent improvised explosive stashed inside waiting for someone just like him.

"Damn it, all this tiptoeing around…" he searched for the words. "makes me wish we were still fighting the Rim's army. At least they had the decency to stick around after they lured you into a trap."

"True. The closest thing we can expect to a straight fight is a sniper that takes more than one damned shot." the corporal said, stepping over a small pothole, or perhaps a crater - it had been around too long, whatever it was, to make the difference obvious. "Sometimes I wonder what we even accomplish walking around like this."

Ma Fei shot Wei a disapproving look. He had his doubts as well, but if they stopped going on patrol, they might as well have ceded the city streets back to the Taiwanese. A certain level of control had to be maintained, period. Getting out on the streets and challenging anyone to defy them was one way of keeping that order, even if it didn't sit well with him.

"Well we could go house to house and start killing anyone we didn't like," Lt. Ma Fei suggested, half-seriously. Of course they could have come down hard on the Taiwanese, and from what he understood it was a solution that was offered frequently but General Wu, who made his headquarters not far from where Ma Fei walked was standing his political ground with the soft approach. The idea was the long-term picture; Taiwan was part of China, a wayward province to be brought back into the fold, not conquered but liberated. All of which sounded great, except that the locals weren't on the same page with their liberators. Instead of welcoming him with open arms they were trying to open his throat.

"Killing every man woman and child on this forsaken island may not be the best idea, but neither is what we're doing." Cpl. Wei said. Ma Fei almost answered with another quip, but the real answer to Wei's comment loomed in his mind: starting this war in the first place was the bad idea. Nothing was going as planned anymore, especially with India's sneak attacks. Ma Fei and his marines should have been relieved months and months ago, but there was no relief in sight. The only way he and his men were getting off Taiwan was a one-way ticket to Vietnam or Laos, Manchuria or the Himalayas, none of which seemed an improvement. Out of the frying pan and into the blast furnace, it would be.

"Look on the bright side, Wei." Ma suggested.

"At least we aren't in Manchuria freezing our balls off!" Wei said, not missing a beat.

"Instead we have the warm hospitality of these humble folk."

"Yes, very warm. Did you hear about the guy in 2cd battalion that was hit with a Molotov yesterday?"

Ma Fei had heard about that. The marine had been on a patrol not unlike their own, and an insurgent had nailed him with a Molotov cocktail, which smashed open on his armor and engulfed the man in flames. Two of his mates had been injured as they tried to smother the flames and the man's ammunition had cooked off. Two incapacitated and one killed, and the insurgent had escaped. That sort of news was standard fare in the morning briefings. Those meetings were probably what he hated most about accepting the field commission as Lieutenant, running no less than an hour and consisting of mostly useless information. The man killed yesterday was the main topic this morning, even though there was nothing anyone could do about it or to prepare for it in the future. What was he supposed to tell his men? Look out for Molotov-wielding insurgents? They already knew that, and they should have known better than to try to smother those flames by hand. All of Ma Fei's men carried grenades, and if those cooked off while someone was trying to extinguish another man…

It was cold, but a man hit like that was dead, or he would wish he had died later. The best thing for him would have been a well-aimed bullet, although he wouldn't have liked to do it in front of all the Taiwanese… not that having him burn to death in front of them was good, either. Everything here was less  
than ideal.

"Ah, there's a sight for sore eyes." Wei said, now ahead of him and rounding the corner. Ma Fei was only a few steps behind him. The men stepped more lively now, so close to the base. It was an old warehouse, bristling with razor wire and surrounded on all sides by large, rigid baskets filled with rubble and dirt. On the corners of the building sat squat guard posts, not quite towers, but they did a fair imitation. The men standing guard up there looked down at the incoming patrol and gave them a brief wave.

The patrol passed through the fortified entrance and into the relative security of the base. Once inside, it was safe enough to lay aside the armor, although they kept it close, no more than a few meters away. Every now and then some enterprising locals would try and lob a few mortars into the base, but so far they hadn't actually hit it, just close enough to give them a scare. They were getting closer though. Soon they would find the range, and the men up on the roof would have to add mortars to their already considerable worries. He would have to add them to his as well; mortars could penetrate the roof, or they could explode up there and spray into the men sleeping, eating, or trying to entertain themselves. Would they have to take to sleeping in their armor? More likely they would be pulled back to a more secure base if things got too dangerous here. That would take more than a few mortars, though.

The section he'd been leading on the patrol milled around just past the gate, waiting for the patrol's debrief. Ma Fei waved them off; nothing had happened on the patrol, and they'd been through enough debriefs about quiet patrols that they could probably recite it by heart. They didn't need to hear him ramble through it again. They wasted no time dispersing to their various activities; some headed to cots, some went to the latrines, and others made for the chow tables. Lt. Ma took his helmet off and slung his carbine across his back, as comfortable as he was going to be while he still carried everything. He made his way into his Company's HQ; a ramshackle collection of plywood, cables and equipment that claimed one corner of the warehouse. Inside sat Sgt. Ming, custodian of the radios and everything else between the plywood. He was typing away at the company's sole functioning laptop, and looked up briefly when Ma Fei set his helmet down on the desk.

"I need to file my mission report real quick, sergeant." Lt. Ma Fei said, putting a little extra emphasis on 'sergeant'.

"I'm in the middle of something." Ming said, continuing to type away.

"It'll only take a minute, and it should be filed now."

"I'll be done in a while," Ming looked up at him, glanced at the door, and stopped typing. Ma Fei didn't look at the door, didn't move.

"Save your work." he said, putting a hand on the laptop. It had been a long patrol, and he didn't feel like waiting for Ming to finish whatever he was frittering away at on the computer. Not long ago he and Ming were the same rank; they went out together, drank together… they hadn't quite chased women together, but Ma had certainly watched Ming try. Ming wasn't the only one who hadn't taken Ma Fei's string of promotions so well. Whether he was jealous, resentful, or something else, Ma Fei didn't care, there were too many possibilities for him to work it out, and he didn't feel like puzzling out what Ming's issue with him was.

"Look, Ma,"

"- Lieutenant Ma, Sergeant." he said. "Save your work, and come back in a few minutes. Grab some chow or something. Now, Ming."

He hit a few more keys peevishly and stormed out of the room, snatching a portable handset for the Company radios on his way out, so he could continue to monitor them. Hopefully he would learn his lesson sooner rather than later. Ma Fei hadn't asked for this promotion, and certainly didn't want the job, but it was his now and he had to play the part. Waiting for a computer didn't matter, but he had to establish himself, and that meant the little things as well as the big things. If he didn't someday someone would hesitate at the wrong moment, question the wrong order, and someone would get killed.

He typed up his report with practiced ease, finishing in a little more than a minute. He filed the report, sending it on up through the PLA's wireless net, which wasn't the most reliable system he'd ever seen, but it was handling World War Three better than the internet was, anyhow. It didn't use satellites- that was probably its chief advantage, since satellites didn't have a long lifespan in this war; certainly not so close to the Rim, NC, and US's geosynchronous orbits, swarming with all manner of nasty HK satellites, no doubt.

He stood up and pushed Ming's chair in, picking up his helmet and stepping out the door.

"Ah, Ma. Uneventful patrol?" Captain Li emerged from one of the chemical latrines.

"Yes, sir. No trouble with the locals, no garlands of flowers for them men, though."

"Well, spring's still young. I'm sure in a few weeks they'll have some ready for us, laced with cyanide and strung with hand grenades, probably."

"I'm sure they just can't wait."

Captain Li smiled down Ma Fei briefly, then headed to his normal haunt- a small room built into the HQ corner, where he had a cot set up close enough to hear any radio traffic from the Company radios. Captain Li led patrols every now and then, and went to several meetings with local leaders each week. So far he'd only been ambushed in earnest twice, and survived both attempts. He was the only officer left intact from the initial invasion and the fight across the island, no small feat.

Li wasn't a natural leader, but he had learned the job in a hard school and Ma Fei knew he could rely on him to make the right calls most of the time, and to recognize the times that he'd screwed up and fix his own messes. Li also gave Ma Fei and his other subordinates a wide margin to act on their own initiative, something preached but not practiced often enough. He was a good man to work for, and Ma Fei worried each time his CO went out that Cpt. Li wouldn't make it back. The company had gone through three commanders in six months; it had a good one now and losing him would be devastating.

Too bad then, that Ma Fei knew it was only a matter of time before the Captain's number came up, or his own, for that matter.


	11. Chapter 11

April 5, 2021, over Russky Island, Russian Federation

"Don't give me that crap, Misuro!" Pvt. Ling shouted to be heard over the noise of the aircraft's engines. "You know what I'm talking about!"

Cpl. Misuro, sitting directly across from Ling, stared back at him impassively. He might as well have been a statue.

"How would he know anything about the intel?" Pvt. Kawashima asked Sgt. Sato.

Kawashima was relatively new to the squad. He had seen action with the unit in the push past the Yalu not long ago, so he had graduated past 'replacement/ FNG', but he was still learning, and he didn't know some of the older guys like Sato did. He had done all right in his first fight though, surviving and even helping out a few times. Three out of five didn't make the cut - two of those were dead now. Their names and faces were starting to fade out of Sato's mind, just like the old squad before the war, only they were fading faster. He just never really knew them like he did the old gang.

There weren't any more replacements in the squad yet, which suited Sato fine. If any mission required the finesse of a veteran, it was this one. A new recruit would just get in the way.

The aircraft heaved as the pilot dropped it to the deck, following the terrain unnaturally close. If he so much as sneezed… The tilt-rotor aircraft banked left and Sato found himself looking up into the night sky. Stars winked in and out as other dark shapes cut through the sky. Somewhere up there, between Sato and those stars, a different attack was playing out; satellites were moving into position over Vladivostok and its defense grid, and with any luck, they were wreaking havoc, shutting down the network and carving out the digital heart of the defenses. It was a standard maneuver these days, but that just meant it was inevitable that someone would figure out a way to stop them. He hoped tonight wasn't the night someone did, or he was as good as dead.

"Five minutes out." Captain Zhou radioed. In a heartbeat, everyone was holding up five fingers, passing the message on in case anyone missed it.

"****, Misuro. We might get shot out of the sky in the next five minutes! Just tell me what you know!" Ling shouted.

Kawashima looked at Sato plaintively. Sgt. Sato rolled his eyes behind his visor and leaned forward.

"You know the Lt. in S-2?"

Kawashima nodded. Sato nodded at him conspiratorially, and after a moment, Kawashima let out an 'ahhh' of understanding.

"Ling thinks she told him if the intel was strong or not."

"Oh," Kawashima said dumbly. How he'd missed that piece of battalion gossip Sato would never know.

"The truth is it doesn't matter; we're about to find out if the intel was worth the paper it was printed on in about three minutes." Sato said, clapping Kawahima on an armor-clad shoulder. The kid looked nervous, but that was natural. As long as he didn't freeze up, with a little luck he'd be fine.

The dim lighting in the cabin abruptly changed to amber. Everyone checked and double-checked gear in-between gut wrenching maneuvers as the transport made its final approach. Sato's HUD winked into active mode at the tap of his finger, and he switched on his night vision. The cabin lit up in his visor, now a bright, sharp world. Sato checked the infrared laser on his rifle, tapping it on, and switching the glowing beam off. Satisfied, he took one more look around the cabin and closed his eyes for the final descent.

The KT-14's engines roared and changed their pitch as the rotors flipped into the vertical position, and the pilot pitched the nose up. The transport hurtled towards the ground, decelerating wildly and crushing the men against their seats with the G's. Sato heard the distinctive pinging sounds of small arms fire hitting the hull. The armor would keep most of it out, but if they managed to put a missile on the transport, their chances of survival were slim as hell. Sato tried to keep that thought out of his head.

The G's relented and the engines relaxed. Sato opened his eyes to see the amber light blinking, and he tensed up. The aircraft leveled out, and the doors slid open. The crew blazed away into the night with their miniguns, hosing down anything that moved with a stream of hot lead. Sato was on his feet already, moving to one his door patiently as the men ahead of him took the rope, then it was his turn, and he was sliding down, holding on for dear life through thick leather gloves. He hit the ground and took off for the nearest bit of cover; a concrete barrier. Shell casings from the minigun rained down nearby, spilling across the ground. As his squad formed up around him, Sato scanned for targets. The pilots had put them down in the right spot, about fifty meters from the uplink control center. Surrounding it was a high concrete wall lined with razor wire and reinforced towers, all of which were being suppressed enthusiastically by the door gunners on each tilt-rotor. The barracks building was about one-hundred meters from Sato; a few guards had made it out before the building was raked back and forth with miniguns, only to be dropped by Sato's comrades on the ground. There were a few other buildings inside the concrete perimeter, mostly administrative and minimally staffed.

"Squad's ready." Misuro slapped him on the shoulder.

"Stack on the uplink utility door, move!" Sato heaved himself over the concrete barrier and sprinted for the uplink. His heart pounded as he skidded into place next to the door. His headset chattered with radio traffic as teams began assaulting their targets.

"Kawashima, breaching charge." Kawashima hustled to the door and stuck the small plastic explosive near the door handle, and moved back to the rear of his stack. No slip-ups; Kawashima was doing fine so far.

"Three, two, one, hit it!" Sato didn't hear the second half of 'hit it', as Kawashima detonated the charge, blowing the door off its hinges. Sato's fire team surged through the door, rifles and SMGs up. The room was lit by a few fluorescent bulbs, so Sato's visor automatically compensated and switched off night vision. There were a few empty desks and filing cabinets in the room, but no targets. Looseleaf paper floated down in the smoke, thrown up by the explosion.

"Clear!"

Sato's team moved up to the next door as the second team filed into the room. Sato checked the knob; unlocked, threw the door open and charged through, into a stairwell. So far, the schematics had been right. Moving methodically down the stairs, he kept his rifle trained downwards as he moved. Two flights of stairs, and they had reached the bottom, and a pretty solid door with warnings written in Cyrillic lettering all over it. According to the schematics they'd had, it would open into the control room; an emergency exit. The profusion of warnings on the door made Sato optimistic. He keyed his mic as his men took up positions at the door and started fitting it with explosives.

"Two, Red31 is set on the control room emergency exit."

It took a moment before Plt. Sgt Katsuo replied, "Copy that, 31. Standby."

The wait stretched on for an eternity, as Sato's squad waited for the other control room teams to get set. They had drawn a relatively easy approach; an unused emergency escape access door. The other teams were working their way through the main and secondary entrance, where there would be some personnel to work through. Sato doubted they would offer much resistance, but it would still slow those teams down. He listened intently to his radio, idly tracking the battle as he could while listening for the other teams. The perimeter was almost entirely secure; there were just a few holdouts in some of the towers to clean out. The buildings inside the compound were cleared, and the battalion was already moving into the second phase of the operation: bracing for counter-attack.

The other control-room teams checked in, and Sato's squad tensed up again. The control room had two levels to it, and a wide floor plan. At this point it would be the most heavily guarded room in the complex, so the attack plan called for three squads to take it down.

"Control room teams, execute on three, one, two, three!" Kawashima blew the door inwards in a flash of fire and smoke.

Misuro's fire team charged in first, followed closely by Sato and his own team. Sato and his team hugged the right-hand wall and scrambled up a flight of stairs as gunfire erupted across the room. Matusi was on point up the stairs, blasting a guard at the top with a three-round burst that ripped right through the man's vest and toppled him over.

Sato was in the number two spot, so when Matsui reached the top of the stairs and turned right along the catwalk, he swung left and scanned for targets. Computer consoles were spread around the upper level, mostly unmanned. A few technicians hid behind their consoles, weapons all but forgotten. At the far end though, a guard leaned around one console, Kalashnikov up. Sato slowed his step for a heartbeat as he double-tapped his trigger and sent two rounds ripping into the man's shoulder and his neck, sending up a spray of blood as the man went down, firing wildly as he fell.

The technicians practically fell over themselves surrendering. By the time Sato was halfway to the corner he was headed to, the firing had already petered out. The uplink security force hadn't been anywhere near ready for the attack. The attack had been a classic uplink-grab with a new twist, something to do with an EMP and stealth air attack, executed moments before the air transports entered detection range. The details weren't important, but they had been lucky. Even the most optimistic estimates hadn't put the chances of the air transports making it through Vladivostok's defense grid above twenty percent. But they had, with no snags that Sato knew of. So far the mission was going shockingly well. The control room was filled with Tiger Brigade soldiers, dead guards, and prisoners.

Sato had the technicians pile their sidearms and escorted them downstairs. They didn't need the technicians, but so far Russia had played nice with them, so Sato and his colleagues kept them alive. Special teams were already setting up shop, taking over the vital functions of the uplink center and turning them against the Russians. It was standard procedure for a good reason; high above them satellites were making their move, capitalizing on the Russian system's disruption. Allied satellites would be cleaning up in no time, controlled by stations in this uplink and the others like it. Enemy communications would be limited to landlines before long, and the defense grid would fall apart like a house of cards. As long as the uplinks stayed in friendly hands that is.

Sgt. Katsuo grabbed Sato as he turned over his prisoners.

"Sato, get your men moving. We've got sector 4, pull up some good real estate and get comfy, we're not done yet."

Sato and his squad moved quickly back up the stairs and out the door, and into a radically different scene than what they had left not five minutes earlier. The compound was swarming with crews preparing defenses. Only a few meters away, a soldier in a heavy-weapons exo-skeleton was toiling away with an oversized shovel, using his augmented strength to dig fighting positions in a fraction of the time a normal man could. His support team was close by, weapons also laid aside for the moment as they dug for all they were worth as well. Combat engineers planted mines and staked out sectors of fire for their heavy weapons. Keeping them and their weapons working meant keeping the compound in friendly hands. Even now, a Russian counter-attack had to be brewing, and they would spearhead it with an armored column. That meant T-90s at best, T-100s at worst.

"Don't just stand there, guys. Grab a shovel." Sato said, plucking one out of a supply crate nearby.

Two hours later, he couldn't remember what had happened to the shovel, but if he could have found it he would probably have married it. The Russians had been pounding them for the last twenty minutes with Artillery and mortars. If the exterior of the uplink center hadn't been reinforced concrete several feet thick, the whole building would have been leveled outright. As it was it looked like the surface of the moon, and the Russians hadn't even made their push yet. Sato huddled down in his foxhole, keeping an eye out with his snake cam while the bombardment lasted. There was no sign of the Russians yet, but they were coming, sure as sunrise.

In the lulls between volleys, he could hear the roar of jets overhead. Friendly planes would be making a play for the skies above Vladivostok, and if they took control his personal chances of survival spiked in the right direction. As of now, they seemed pretty slim. From what he could see with his snake cam, the concrete wall was more all but completely shattered now. The buildings were flattened, except for the uplink itself. Sato could taste blood in his mouth, a souvenir from a near hit from a shell.

Then the bombardment lifted, and he knew they were coming. He heard them before he saw them; the rumble of Russian armor shook the ground and he could feel it in his bones. Then he saw them; T-100s, which as bad as it was by itself, also meant Spetznaz. Well, intel had to be wrong about something; apparently they were wrong when they reported that all the Russian special forces were at the front lines.

"_Sit tight, Bravo company. Rifles, keep an eye out for infantry but until then stay buttoned up. Heavy weapons teams, wait till you've got a clear shot._" Captain Zhou had made it through the bombardment in one piece, it seemed.

He saw the flash of the tank's guns first, then the scream of the shells; after that, everything was drowned out in explosions again; the dull roar of the guns firing, and the sharp clap of the shells exploding on the concrete and on the ground. Rockets lanced out from foxholes and slammed into the tanks, but only stopped a few of the beasts - not what Sato was hoping for. Cockroach IFVs weren't far behind the tanks, and Sato was sure the infantry was right behind them. The tanks pressed on through the continuing hail of rockets, breaking into the perimeter into Bravo company's sector and wreaking havoc. Teeming with weapons, they let loose with a hail of bullets and streams of fire on the fighting positions. Where they hit, men died.

But the tanks were hurting, too. The withering rocket fire and the surviving mines were taking a heavy toll on the T-100s. One of them turned Sato's way, only to hit a mine on the right tread, which didn't kill the tank, but it did stop it. The crew fought on, but dead in the water, the tank was a perfect target, and three rockets slammed into it in a matter of seconds. The third one did the trick, penetrating the armor and touching off the ammunition, blowing the turret into the air.

For a second, Sato thought the attack was stalled, but then the real attack began in earnest. Soldiers in green camouflage advanced with more tanks and IFVs, firing as they came. Accurate infantry fire would kill or pin down anyone trying to fire rockets - it was time for Sato to earn his pay.

"_Enemy infantry! Take 'em down!_"

Sato was up already, sighting in on the Russians through the smoke and dust and opened fire. The Russians didn't give him an easy target, using the vehicles for mobile cover when they could. Coaxial guns and the auto cannons on the IFVs laid down a hail of lead, forcing Sato down before a spray of dirt and bullets more than once. But Sato wasn't the only one shooting back. Only a few meters away, an exoskeleton trooper stood up and delivered with a minigun, tearing the Spetznaz apart, literally. An IFV answered with it's dual cannon, catching the trooper in the shoulder plate on his way down. Sato thought he'd be down for the count, but the trooper was back on his feet blazing away after just a few seconds.

But all their fire couldn't keep the Russians out. They were at the wall before he knew it, and after that, they were inside the compound. Sato was closer to the uplink than the wall, but he could see Spetznaz jump into the foxholes of his comrades, and the fighting there was brutal hand-to-hand. Rifles were clubs, knives flashed, and there was blood everywhere. Sato helped as he could, picking off Russians as they dashed up, but there seemed to be no end to them. Still more Tanks and Transports were approaching, with another wave of infantry. Sato eyed his dwindling supply of ammo nervously. He had only a few more minutes left in this kind of fight.

As he reloaded, a familiar sound entered his ears: transport choppers - relief was here, and not a moment too soon. He scanned the southern sky, saw nothing, and turned North. They were coming from the wrong direction… And then he realized they weren't friendly. Flying in an arrowhead formation, at least twenty transports with gunship escorts were headed straight for them. The ground attack was a diversion, or maybe the air assault was - it didn't matter, because there was no way they could resist both attacks at the same time. Sato did what the only thing he could; he kept firing.


End file.
